


The 'We Hate Phil' Club

by Princess_Aleera



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: #coulsonlives, Actually Coulson needs a lot of hugs, Aftermath, All of these characters are ooc but for a reason, Bruce is a dick, Bullying, Clint hates Coulson, Clint/OMCs (while under spell), Coulson Needs A Hug, Crying, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Embarrassment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Getting Together, Harassment, Hazing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Magical Accidents, Mjølnir is not amused, Multi, Natasha is shy and giggles, Natasha/Maria/Loki flirting (while under spell), Other, Phil Coulson is not amused, Pining, Reversal spell, Seriously everybody hates Coulson, Sometimes Phil Coulson is awkward, Steve is a scaredy-cat, Thor hates everything, Tony Has Issues, Violence, blame it on the painkillers, it's not pretty, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Aleera/pseuds/Princess_Aleera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the avengerskink meme for a spell that reverses people's feelings for each other; I went a step further and flipped people's personalities completely.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Not one of the agents he speaks to will do what he says, not even if he pulls rank on them. They treat him like the dirt under their shoe, and Phil is torn between frustration at not being listened to, and baffled joy at the knowledge that usually, he really does have all these people's respect.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CeliaEquus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeliaEquus/gifts).



> Fair warning: Because of how much a person's feelings towards the people around them affects their personality, this is less of a feelings!reversal and more of a personality!reversal. It means that the characters' general knowledge and skills are all there, but their personalities – and the way they react to different people – are upside down. Therefore, expect most everyone to be thoroughly out of character while the curse lasts.
> 
>  **Trigger warnings:** Bullying/hazing/harassment ( a well-respected character is generally hated by everyone who's reversed), violence, unrequited crushes, dub-con (people having sex under the influence of the spell who normally hate each other), hurt/comfort, more hurt of the emotional kind, and aforementioned ooc-ness. I really cannot stress how out of character these hexed guys are – and that includes Loki. Basically the more awesome they are, the more awful/whiny/giggly they are here. There. You have been warned.
> 
>  **Pairings:** Bruce/Tony, eventual Clint/Coulson, one-sided Coulson/Loki* flirting, Clint/OMCs*, Hill/Loki/Natasha* flirting (but no sex), brief, implied past Coulson/OMC  
>  * occurs while they are under the spell

Phil really thought that almost dying would be the lowest point of his year. It's kind of hard to top; a massive spear to the chest and the resulting weeks of coma, before the endless physiotherapy and the shock on the Avengers' faces when they first saw him again.

But, Phil concedes as he looks around the base he's just arrived at, this somehow feels bleaker. Maybe because instead of a handful of agents having their minds warped, like under the Battle of New York, there are now around forty of them.

He doesn't know where most of the Avengers are. They must be here, somewhere on the base, but Thor ran away from the crowd of hexed agents before Phil got here, terrified, and Steve has slunk away somewhere because he doesn't trust anyone. Clint, Bruce and Tony are all missing, too. Sitwell is with Phil, and they – plus a dozen other agents who were off-base when Loki showed up, and are therefore themselves – are trying to get the situation somewhat under control.

It was pretty clear, once Phil came down here after Deputy Director Hill had given him the red alert – before she, too had been affected by the spell – what the hell has happened. It's some kind of personality reversal, or something of the kind, and it has affected everyone in the nearby vicinity. And Phil means _everyone_ \- he still doesn't know whether Loki meant to get caught in the blast himself, but here he is nonetheless, cuddled between Hill and Romanoff. Maria looks transfixed, color high in her cheeks as she holds one of the demi-god's hands. Natasha clasps the other, smiling shyly and fluttering her eyelashes. Loki, on the other hand, is brash and confident, enthusiastically telling what seems to be an Asgardian joke. When he reaches the punchline, both Maria and Natasha burst into giggles, and Loki grins like he is king of the world.

Phil feels a little ill.

“Can you pinch me, boss?” Sitwell mutters, and Phil is so damn grateful he's not the only sane person left.

“You might be better off pretending this is a nightmare, agent.” Phil sighs. “Okay, let's find our wayward Avengers and talk to Loki about a reversal.”

Sitwell nods and shouts a command to their team, who splits up to find the missing superheroes as well as the missing agents. Phil spots Sanderson and Johnson in the corner, playing tonsil hockey, and resists the urge to snap a photo of them for later blackmail material. The two agents have one of the more strained relationships in SHIELD and never work with each other, and it is another tick in favor of Phil's reversal-theory that the two are now struggling to get in each other's pants, lack of privacy be damned.

“You're so much cooler than your brother,” Natasha says to Loki, and Maria chimes in with an “I _know_ , right?”

Loki's face clouds over. “Ugh, do not speak of that buffoon. He is not worth any of ours' thoughts; they are better served focusing on me.” He smiles widely and the agents laugh.

“Agent Romanoff, Agent Hill,” Phil says and steps over to the two star-struck women still fawning over Loki. “If you would come with me to the common room, please? We're trying to gather everyone in one place.”

“Screw you,” Natasha says and blows him a raspberry. Phil very nearly stumbles back in surprise. “You're not my handler anymore.” Her voice is sulky, like a child, and she looks at him with nothing but contempt. Maria sniggers at her apparent new best friend – Phil knows the two have a cool, but professional relationship normally – and crosses her arms petulantly.

“Yeah, _Phyllis,_ ,” Maria says. “Go bother someone else, why don't you?”

Loki looks up at Phil through his lashes. “Hi, Phil,” he says shyly, and Phil really does not know what to do with that, so he opts for leaving without another word.

He soon spots a common theme; not one of the agents he speaks to will do what he says, not even if he pulls rank on them. They treat him like the dirt under their shoe, and Phil is torn between frustration at not being listened to, and baffled joy at the knowledge that usually, he really does have all these people's respect.

“Sir?” Sitwell says over the comm. “We've located Captain America.”

“Where is he?” Phil says.

“In the supply closet, sir. He's... hiding. We could probably use your help on this one.”

Phil doesn't tell Sitwell that he hopes Steve reacts with contempt at seeing him – he doesn't know what he would feel, let alone do if this Steve liked him now – but he mutters something affirmative into the comm and makes his way through the base. When he meets Agent Nye, one of the new recruits, he stops her. “Agent, I want you to locate as many other agents as you can and order them to the base common room.”

“Y-yes, sir,” she says, straightening. She's a bit on the shy side, and Phil hopes that her lack of respect amongst the affected agents will work to their advantage now.

There are two agents waiting with Sitwell outside the supply closet on the second floor, looking like they're not sure whether to cry or laugh. Phil gets it when he hears Steve's squeaky voice: “Go away! I- I- warn you, I am really strong! I c-could take all of you down if I wanted to!”

“Great,” Phil says tiredly. “Have we found any of the others yet?”

Sitwell shakes his head. “Rumor has it Thor is hiding in the basement somewhere, and Barton is currently, uh – doing agents Reilly, Carson and Weiman in your office.” Sitwell grimaces. "We have someone up there trying to keep them apart, sir."

Phil doesn't even know where to start with that – other than the second-hand embarrassment and the nauseating reminder of the mind-control Clint was recently under, Phil feels genuinely sorry for Clint, who hates all three of his ex-handlers with a fiery passion that now seems to have switched to... well, fiery passion. “Do we know why it was my office in particular?”

Sitwell shifts, a subtle tell that makes Phil want to slump a little. “I wasn't there, sir, but Agent Norm reported graffiti on your office door.”

“Do I want to know what it says?”

“You really don't, sir,” Sitwell sighs.

Phil nods. That bad. “Okay, let's take one thing at a time.” He steps forward and knocks on the door of the supply closet. “Steve? It's Phil Coulson. Are you alright?”

“Ugh, not _you_ ,” Steve says through the door. “Of course you are here; you have this strange obsession with me. Am I bugged? Did you bug me while I slept? Are you watching me right now?” And his voice grows increasingly agitated and paranoid with every suggestion.

“No one has bugged you, Steve, I promise,” Phil says and swallows his relief. Hopefully, this means that Steve usually doesn't find Phil _too_ odd, despite their disastrous first meeting. “We're rounding everyone up in the common room – you're under a spell. Do you think you could let us in?” Of course, they could just pick the lock open, but a terrified and paranoid super soldier in the supply closet is much better than one on the run.

“A _spell_? Is it dangerous? Oh gosh, it is, isn't it?” Steve groans and Phil can visualize him, curled up in a corner of the small space, eyes flickering. “Are we going to die? Am _I_ going to die? I'm too young to die! I know I was born in the thirties but that time in the ice shouldn't _count_!”

“Figures,” Sitwell says from behind Phil, and he sounds as tired as Phil feels. “Captain America's polar opposite being a whiny, paranoid, egocentric brat.”

Phil sighs and ignores the urge to bang his forehead against the door. He shakes his head at Sitwell; they're not going to get Steve out of there. “Steve, listen to me, okay? Everything is fine; we are fine, you are fine. You're not sick, you're not bugged, and you're not going to die. Just sit tight and we'll solve this.”

Steve's only answer is a whimper, and something suspiciously like a sob. Phil needs to get out of here before he starts associating the _real_ Steve Rogers with this – this – he doesn't even know. He tells the two other agents to guard the Captain, and goes off on his own to find Stark, Thor, or Banner.

Banner, it seems, isn't actually hiding. He's just sitting on the third floor, in the gym, surrounded by a handful of agents Coulson has pegged as introverts by nature. “And then I just – BAM!” Banner says and slaps his hands together, his face lighting up with glee. “And I crushed that guy's skull with my bare hands! It was _awesome_.”

Agents Nguyen and Lorenz laugh out loud and high-five the scientist. “Wicked!” Everyone treats Banner like their best friend, which Phil finds somewhat sad, considering the majority of SHIELD's agents fear the gentle man. He hopes the reversal of this spell comes with a convenient bout of amnesia.

“Or, well, y'know, technically I was the Hulk,” Banner says with a shrug. “But we're, like, practically the same person, so really it was me.”

“Oh, shoot, here comes Mister Fun,” Nguyen says when she sees Phil in the doorway and grimaces. “What's up, Stuffy?”

Phil is getting mighty tired of the nicknames he's getting thrown after him today, but he walks over to the group nonetheless. “We're holding a mandatory meeting in the common room first floor. Right now, please.”

“ _Right now, please_ ,” Lorenz mimics in a high-pitched, whiny noise, and everyone laughs – especially Banner.

“Hey, hey Phil,” the scientist says. “How about you fuck off before me and the Hulk fuck _you_ up?” He waggles his eyebrows, and aside from the physical threat, he reminds Phil startlingly of his boyfriend, Tony.

Phil suddenly realizes that he might need to tread carefully here. Hulk is mostly angry at everything and everyone, but he tends to listen to his team – and by extension, Phil – and there's no guessing what the giant rage monster will be like right now. “I'm leaving, Doctor Banner,” he says. “But it would be helpful if you could assemble downstairs anyway. Perhaps you know where I can find Stark?”

Banner grimaces and flips him off. “Yeah, no, I broke up with that loser. I mean, have you _met_ the guy? He's fucking obnoxious!” And his gaggle of admirers laugh when he does.

Phil wants to scream when he realizes the extent of emotional damage control they will need to do once ( _if_ , his brain says and he ignores it) this spell is reversed. On the outside, he only offers the scientist a nod and leaves the room, telling Agent Nye over the comm to get up there.

“Soon as possible, sir,” she says and sounds out of breath. “As soon as we can stop agents Hale to try and kill each other. Their marriage is a little rocky at the moment, sir.”

~*~

“Oh God,” Phil hears Sitwell groan over the comm.

“Report,” Phil barks. He's had two agents flash him in the last twenty minutes, and half his team is still missing, not to mention his boss. He's a little frayed around the edges by now, even holding onto the thought that the more they hate him now, the more they must actually like him.

“We have found Director Fury, sir,” Sitwell bites out, sounding pained.

“How bad is it?”

“He's... he's crying, sir.”

Phil stops to lean against the wall for a moment. “You said _what_?”

“Crying, sir. Like a kid.”

“ _Why_?”

“Apparently he really doesn't want to be in charge of all these stupid, dumb, stupid people, sir,” Sitwell grates out. “He's currently being rocked by agent Ferris.”

Phil drags a hand over his face. “Leave him in the room, don't let anybody who hasn't already seen find him. _Anyone_. Got me?”

“Sir,” Sitwell says. “You're not -”

“He would probably kill me on the spot,” Phil says, and doesn't add that seeing his oldest friend in tears would probably ruin their friendship forever.

“I'm gonna need so much therapy after this,” Sitwell mutters.

“Um, Agent Coulson?” a hesitant voice asks over the main line, and Phil recognizes it as Agent Samson.

“Report,” he says, and if he sounds a little snippier than usual, well.

“Agent Romanoff and Deputy Director Hill are currently trying to leave the room with Loki,” he says. “We, uh – they are quite adamant, sir.”

Phil closes his eyes. “Have they hurt anyone yet?”

“Only – only me, sir, but I'm fine, honestly,” Samson blurts. Poor kid has only been in active duty for three months; he wouldn't stand a chance against either of the agents, let alone two of them.

“Get back-up,” Phil barks. “Tranquillize them if you need to; _do not let them leave the room_. Especially not Loki. I'm coming back there.”

“Sir,” Samson says, and a few agents voice their nearby positions. Phil makes his way back to the first floor, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, but notices some strange scratch marks on the wall leading back down to the basement. When he follows them, they lead him to Mjølnir, sitting inconspicuously on the floor of one of the side hallways leading to the agents' sleeping quarters. One of the doors are ajar, and Phil peeks inside. It's a standard room, a small closet, a smaller bathroom and a medium-sized bed taking up the entirety of the space. Phil notices that the small rug in front of the bed is in disarray, and squats to look under it.

“Hello, Thor. Are you alright?”

Thor's eyes are huge when they settle on his, peering at him distrustfully. He's somehow managed to squeeze his huge form underneath the bed and he looks trapped there now, his breathing shallow and his fists clenched tightly in front of him. “Son of Coul,” he whispers, eyes flickering.

“Hello, Thor.” Thor and him have a good relationship – Thor likes most everyone, Phil thinks, but he doesn't seem to hate Phil now. “Do you want to come out? I promise, I'm not going to hurt you.”

“How can I trust your word?” Thor whispers; doesn't seem able to raise his voice. It's a jarring difference to his usual lack of an inside voice. “Everyone else has betrayed me.” He swallows heavily and curls in on himself further.

“What do you mean?”

“Liars, you are all liars,” Thor hisses and sends Phil a dirty look. “Midgardians, Asgardians, Mjølnir – you are all the same, all petty and moronic.” Even in his position, he manages to raise his chin defiantly. “I am a Prince of Asgard – you do not deserve my company, much less my friendship.”

Phil frowns. “So... why are you hiding under the bed?”

Thor blinks, before he gives Phil a dirty look. He mutters something too quiet for Phil to hear.

Phil can't help but smile at the petulant demi-god. He will never, ever tell either of the Thors that he reminds Phil of Loki. “Do you think you could grace us with your presence in the common room downstairs anyway? It would be an honor, I'm sure.” Only his training keeps a dry tone from showing.

Thor 'pfft's. “I care not about honor.”

Phil sighs. “No, you wouldn't, would you.” At least all the Avengers are accounted for now, aside from Stark – in the end he leaves the Asgardian where he cowers, and sends up an agent to guard him.

“Has anyone seen or heard from Stark?” he asks on the open comm. He gets a score of negatives back and curses silently. Tony wears enough masks and layers that even Phil doesn't know how his reversed persona would look like, and the possibilities are daunting to say the least.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter warning:** See the 'bullying/hazing/harassment tag above? Yeah, that's for this chapter. Heed the warnings, guys; there's crude language and childish bullying and a lot of Very Not Good stuff in this chapter - and Phil takes the brunt of all of it, so extra warning for Phil!Whump. (Also cliffie. Oop.)
> 
> A lot of you had very interesting thoughts on how reverse!Tony would act; this is just my take on it. I hope you, uh, like it? IDEK.
> 
> (I'm also on a road trip these days, so my writing/Internet time is limited. I hope I'll finish this up in not too long.)

Phil tells himself that it's not by purpose that he walks towards his office; he's looking for Tony, after all, and he could be anywhere. It's not because he is curious (and a little worried, perhaps) about the alleged graffiti.

It's disturbingly clear, even from the other end of the hallway, which door is Phil's. His steps falter, and he feels a little like he's being repeatedly punched in the stomach. Sitwell had mentioned the graffiti – he hadn't mentioned how _much_ of it there would be.

His entire door, and the surrounding walls, is covered with red, black, green and blue words scribbled in permanent marker. The insults range from unoriginal ( _'welcome to Agent Robot's office'; 'dickface'; 'Coulson sucks cock/trufact'_ ), to disturbing ( _'1 mill $ for Co ~~ul~~ ckson's head'; 'Join the We Hate Phil Club now!'; 'eat shit and die, Coldsonofabitch'; 'I love you, Philip!'_), to personal ( _'Worst day ever: when Coulson wasn't dead'; 'I wish you'd bled out in Namibia, bitch'; 'you were the driest hole I ever fucked'_ ).

Phil pushes open the door to his office. It's empty now, which presumably means that Clint, Reilly, Carson and Weiman have been collected and brought to the common room. Phil's office _smells_. It smells of sex, sure – and Phil is ignoring the white streaks on the floor as well as the thought of what Clint must have been doing here (it hurts too much) – but it smells of much less pleasant things as well. He doesn't need to enter to see their origins – the cigarette burn stains on the carpet and walls, his urine-drenched office chair, and the shit someone has taken on the middle of his desk.

He kept mercifully few things in this office, only a couple of bland, framed pictures to go with his agent persona, but every single one of them has been ripped off the wall and stomped on. Pieces of broken glass and cigarette butts cover the floor.

“Pretty neat, huh?”

Phil turns around to see Tony stand in the doorway, his posture straight like a soldier's. He peers around the room, looking politely interested, but not gloating. “Stark?” Phil asks.

“I helped with some of it,” Tony says and nods at one of the shattered frames. “Not the pissing, though – that seemed a bit childish.” He smiles at Phil, and it's a fake smile, but it's not strained. “I heard there was a meeting?”

“Yes,” Phil says, and he has no idea where on the spectrum Tony currently is, but the distraction is welcomed. _Any_ distraction is welcomed right now, truth be told – especially one that doesn't hurl abuse at him. “Yes, if you would follow me, that would be great.”

“Not like I have much of a choice, right?” Tony says easily and falls into step with him as they leave the sad remains of Phil's office. “Oh, I like that one,” Tony says and points at one of the sentences on the wall. “Creative.”

Phil swallows heavily. _I wouldn't piss on Coulson if he was on fire, but I'd def jack off when he stopped screaming._ It's written in purple crayon, and Phil recognizes the handwriting.

“Can I ask you a question, Stark?” Phil asks, forcing himself to let it go for now and focus on more constructive matters.

“Of course,” Tony says easily, hands in his pockets and demeanor calm. “I'll answer as best I can.”

“I have had quite a few people throw insults and worse at me today. You aren't one of them.” _Does that mean you usually hate me?_ Phil doesn't ask, because he has a difficult time believing that he wouldn't have noticed that, no matter how many masks Tony wears.

“Nah, I wouldn't be,” Tony says blandly. “I mean, I do think you're a despicable human being. It would probably have been better for everyone if Loki had finished you off. But, you are still the Avengers' handler, so that makes you my boss.” He smiles. “I don't have to like you to follow orders, sir.”

Phil blinks. It's the first time Tony has called him 'sir' when it hasn't been mocking. It's a lot more bittersweet than he could have imagined.

~*~

The common room is in a chaotic state when they enter. Agents are screaming at each other, groping each other, laughing, shouting, kissing, crying – all despite his own agents' brave attempts to contain the situation. Steve and Thor are still missing – presumably holed up in their respective hiding places – but the rest of the team and most all of the SHIELD agents are present. Tony nods a cool greeting to his team, still the epitome of professionalism, and even offers Bruce a hand wave. The scientist flips him off and shouts “Slut!” across the room.

Tony turns to Phil. “We broke up,” he says lightly. “Or more correctly: Bruce dumped me.”

“I'm... sorry?” Phil says, and it comes out a question. Once again, he hopes none of them will remember this. Phil hasn't been back from the almost-dead for all that long, but it's clear that odd a couple as they may be, Bruce and Tony are good for each other.

Tony shrugs and thumbs absently at his goatee. “I don't really care. It's just Bruce. He's nothing much, you know?” He checks his nails before giving Phil another one of his empty, dazed smiles. “He is so unbelievably average. I deserve a lot better.”

Phil bites his tongue, before he spots Loki in the crowd – surrounded by a horde of adoring agents, and looking pleased as punch about it – and walks over to him, excusing himself to Tony. Loki's confidence and brashness is surprising – if it weren't for his smiles and his behavior towards Phil, he would think the demi-god were his same old self. “Loki?”

The Asgardian half-turns to look at him, and beams. “Phil! How _are_ you faring?”

 _Our hatred is mutual,_ Phil thinks and gives him a strained smile. “I have been better. Could I have a word, please?”

“Well, of course!” Loki says and rises to his feet, giving each of the agents – Romanoff and Hill among them – a hug as he leaves. He puts an arm around Phil's shoulder and squeezes him companionably, and Phil fights the urge to shove him off. “Can I aid you in some way?”

“I hope so,” Phil says and leads them to a slightly quieter corner. “Are you aware that you have put a spell on most of the people in this room?”

Loki blinks at him, before smiling. “That does not sound like something I would do, Phil, but I trust your word.”

“Right,” Phil says and does not pinch the bridge of his nose. “The thing is, we – _I_ – really need you to reverse that spell.”

Loki frowns, before doing a strange little bow. “Well, my magical skills are astounding for sure, I am the best, but I am not quite certain as to what spell you are referring to?” He turns to blow kisses at his spectators across the room, who utter little squeals of joy and wave back at him.

“It seems to be some kind of polarity spell – imbuing people with their opposite traits,” Phil says vaguely, still not completely sure himself. 

“Well, that sounds ghastly,” Loki smiles, before stepping closer to wrap his hand around Phil's tie. “I am sure I could be... persuaded, Phil.”

Phil somehow manages not to recoil; instead he calmly steps back and out of the demi-god's grasp.

Loki smirks. “Oh, do not act like you aren't interested, Philip.” He winks _jauntily_ , dear God. “Everyone _adores_ me. They would have me be their king, if I so wished!” He cocks his head. “I might attempt that. Ruling Earth sounds intriguing.”

“I-” Phil bites down on the things he wants to shout at the demi-god. “Please, Loki. I know you have a... good heart.” At least right now. Right?

Loki laughs loudly and clasps Phil by his shoulder. “No, no – my heart is far from pure, Phil.” Everything about his demeanor is calm and collected, in control and confident, and Phil realizes that Tony isn't the only one whose entire persona is carefully made-up to hide what's underneath. “Have you ever plunged your hand into a human chest, Phil?” Loki asks, as if he's inquiring about the weather. “Reached in and pulled out the heart, still beating? It is a marvellous feeling; possibly better than copulation. Not that I would know, of course.” He laughs coquettishly and Phil's brain short-circuits a little.

“I haven't,” Phil says and his voice is as strained as his shoulders are tight right now. “And I have no wish to experience it either. But the spell, Loki.”

“Of course! The spell. Hm. Hum hum hum,” Loki says and winks at him again. “I should be able to – reverse it, you say? Am I not normally this way?”

“Not quite,” Phil manages.

“A pity. Your agents are rather wonderful,” Loki says and sends another longing look at his fans across the room. “Especially shy, sweet, Romanoff.” He sighs and clasps his hands together in front of him. “Very well, I shall attempt to reverse my spell. Only for you, Phil.” He reaches out and thumbs along Phil's jaw; Phil nearly takes him out on pure instinct.

He steps back again, but not before the catcalls and collective ' _ewww!_ 's start raining from around him.

“You totally just touched filthy Phyllis, Loki!” Hill croons and a few agents laugh. Soon they all start chanting “Filthy Phyllis! Filthy Phyllis!” like an overgrown high school class. Phil can see the unaffected agents among the crowd looking deeply uncomfortable.

“Have no care for what they say; I find you filthy in only the best of ways,” Loki whispers in his ear, and that's it. Phil needs to leave the room, right now.

He strides purposefully towards the door, telling himself that he's not running away, he is _not_ , and ignores the laughter and the insults. He spots Clint behind Bruce's gang, lounging on top of Weiman and Reilly, who are both smiling shyly down at the archer. Carson sits behind him, feeding Clint M&M's, and Clint looks calm and relaxed and so happy it makes Phil ache. When the archer catches Phil's gaze, something cold and hard lights up in his eyes – and all of a sudden, Phil is reminded of the footage of Clint while he was under Loki's influence.

Clint rises to his feet, kissing the other three agents sloppily as he does, and puts his hands on hips. “Hey! Phyllis!” he shouts at Phil, even though Phil is obviously already watching him. Most of the other agents turn to stare at the archer, though, which Phil suspects is the purpose. He tries to tell himself that anything Clint does is the opposite of how he _really_ feels, but it has been a _very_ long day and Phil has been nursing a distinctly inappropriate crush on the agent for quite some years now. He knows that Clint can hit where no one else can. Has already, with the purple message scribbled across his office door.

Judging by the sly smirk, Clint knows all of this. “Know what the first thing we did after the Battle of New York was, Phyllis? We celebrated. Defeating Loki, yeah, sure – though I don't know why,” Clint says and gives the demi-god an exaggerated wink. Loki blows a kiss back at him. “But mostly, we celebrated our freedom from you,” Clint says and lowers his voice. “Well, me and Nat, anyway, but the rest of the team were pretty fucking game.”

“You got that right!” Natasha pipes up from where she's curled around Maria, and Clint laughs. There's a scatter of applause from the crowd.

“You know, I've been fucked over by a lot of people in my life, Phyllis,” Clint says with a dramatic sigh. “But no one's ever taken as much pleasure from it as you. I know you've got a hard-on for me; figures that you'd get off on the power. You must have a _really_ tiny dick, Phyllis.” His smile is dangerous, his words cutting, and Phil forces himself not to move, not to let anything show on his face even as the word carve deep into him.

“Why couldn't you've just stayed dead, man?” Clint sighs and shakes his head. “You ruined the best day of my life.”

“I guess I just keep on coming,” Phil says, his voice not entirely level.

“Yeah,” Clint says through a huff, and smiles pleasantly. “Doesn't mean we should stop trying, though, right?” And before he's finished the sentence, he has pulled his gun and fired.

Chaos erupts again; curses and shouts from Phil's agents, cheers from the cursed ones. Natasha laughs out loud and applauds enthusiastically, Bruce says “I'm not fixing that fucker!” while Loki screams “No!!” like his heart is breaking. Tony chuckles, deep and slow, and says “Let's give that another try, Agent Barton.”

Phil is mostly glad that he managed to twist his upper body enough that he was hit in the shoulder, not the heart where Clint was aiming. Clint fires two more shots before Agent Nye tackles him from behind and forces him to the floor with a shouted command. Clint immediately listens to her and drops the gun, grinning at the crowd of agents still applauding. Phil crumples; the second bullet hit him in the hip, and the third grazed his side. Clint may not have the focus of a sniper right now, but that doesn't mean he can't hit a target.

“Fuck, boss!” Sitwell shouts, and he's right by Phil's side now – how did that happen? Phil realizes that time is jumping, and that is not a good sign. “Just – hold on, I need to get you out of here,” Sitwell says and asks for medical assistance through his comm. Phil presses his fingers to the wound in his hip, trying to stave off the bleeding, and nearly cries out with pain.

“Just – get Loki to,” he grits out through the waves of agony, his vision going spotty. He's taken three bullets before – more, even – but he's far from his best right now, and he realizes dimly that he's about to pass out.

He thinks how many people in this room would love that, and forces himself to stay awake until Sitwell has gotten him out in the hallway.

“Two minutes, Phil,” Sitwell says and oh, he used Phil's first name. That doesn't bode well.

“Right,” Phil says and blacks out.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a warning, but a note: It's strongly implied here that Natasha is aromantic - to some degree, at least. Obviously there's a big Dub-Con stamp over all the spell-relationships, but that's another reversal. Just a heads-uo.
> 
> (Apologies - this is turning longer than I expected, and I don't know how many parts it'll be. I'm also travelling, so I don't know when the next updates will be. Bear with me <3 )

It's an arduous task, waking up. Phil spends minutes just doing that; willing the fog to depart, willing his mind to start spinning again, to discern what happened between point A and B while he was out. Once he remembers just _how_ he landed in this bed, and notes – with some pride – that he didn't stay dead this time either, Phil opens his eyes.

He could smell, from the moment his other senses kicked in, that he's in Medical. Once his eyes are open and he looks blearily around the room, he pushes down his disappointment. Sitwell is slumped by his bed in the chair Clint normally occupies, sleeping and drooling a little as he does. He's the only one in the room besides Phil. He sighs.

Sitwell jolts awake. “Boss! Hey, how are you feeling?”

Phil considers this. His shoulder burns, but in a dim, |neglectable| way – same with his hip. He can barely feel the graze in his side, which means his painkillers are doing a great job at the moment. “Not bad,” he offers and wipes an IV'd hand at his face. “Spell is still in effect?” He doesn't need to gesture at the empty room to emphasize his point, but Sitwell's eyes flicker to the door anyway.

“No, actually,” the agent says and straightens his crumpled suit, not meeting Phil's eyes. “Loki was able to reverse it while you were in surgery. Seems your getting shot was just the right incentive.”

Phil lets that sink in. “Any injuries or casualties?”

“No casualties,” Sitwell says, “and nothing worse than some bruises and scrapes from fighting or, you know, the opposite.” He cracks a tired grin at Phil. “Fury has already demanded total confidentiality for everyone involved, as well as mandatory psych check-ups. I've got my first appointment in six hours, once I get some more sleep.” He leans back in his chair, stretching. “Should be interesting. Dunno what to do with the fact that nobody seemed to give much of a shit either way about me back there.”

Phil lets his head fall back against his pillows again, unbearably relieved that he's no longer the first in command. He bites down on the question that grates on his insides. _If everyone is back to their same, old self – why are no one here?_

“Anywho,” Sitwell says and rises to his feet, brushing idly at his slacks. “I should go tell everyone you're awake. It's a clusterfuck outside.”

Phil frowns. “Outside?”

Sitwell chuckles and steps over to his bed. “You should see them, boss – contrite as a gang of goddamn puppies. Even Stark looks like he wants to build you a tower of your own.”

“Excuse me?”

Sitwell puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes once. “You kinda took the brunt of the hate back there, Phil. Everyone affected remember everything they did or said – which, you know, means pretty much the entirety of SHIELD are guilting their asses off outside in the hallway.” He grins. “They don't even dare to say _hello_. It's amazing.”

 _So they don't still hate me,_ Phil says and nods instead. “Please let everyone know that I'm okay.” He hesitates for a moment before he adds: “And send the Avengers in, please.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Sitwell leaves, steps springy despite his obvious fatigue. Barely a minute later the door opens again, revealing Steve's sheepish face.

“Captain,” Phil says and absolutely does not smile fondly at the pink stains in the super-soldier's cheeks.

“Agent Coulson,” Steve says and shuffles inside, followed by Thor, Natasha, Bruce and Tony. They all look awkward, except for Natasha, whose expression is so stiff and blank Phil knows she must positively be screaming on the inside. Thor clutches Mjølnir hesitantly, like he doesn't think it trusts him anymore. Tony bounces on the balls of his feet, checks his watch incessantly, and looks everywhere around the room except at Phil. Bruce looks like a kicked puppy.

“Look, that was a shit-storm back there,” Tony starts, and Phil holds up a hand. The billionaire clamps his mouth shut immediately, though he's still not looking at Phil.

“It's fine. That goes for everyone; it was a _reversal_ spell. Trust me when I say you were nothing like your usual selves,” Phil says; there is no need for his team to realize how much some of their actions affected him. “It's good to have you back.” Clint's absence is a gaping hole in the room, and Phil only needs to look at Natasha for her to understand.

“We can't find him, sir,” she says, still stiff and formal. “Not since Loki reversed the spell.”

He didn't expect any different. Clint is probably somewhere in the vents right now, sorting his head out. Phil won't hunt him down for another day; not unless Clint gives him a reason to. “Captain, report,” he says instead, and Steve looks both relieved and embarrassed at the familiar command.

He lays the following events out for Phil; Loki's distress at Phil's getting injured and subsequent cooperation with the unaffected agents, the reversal, the renewed chaos until Director Fury had stormed into the room and taken control in his usual unflappable, slightly terrifying way.

“We remember everything,” Steve finishes, eyes on the floor. Natasha huffs; Phil needs to have a talk with her, it seems. “Sir, I'd like to apologize on behalf of everyone here for the way we treated you.”

“Captain,” Phil starts, but Steve goes on.

“I know it wasn't technically our fault, and your treatment might be seen as a sort of inverted compliment, depending on how you look at it,” and the Captain frowns at that before continuing. “But we meant everything we said and did at the time, and they were awful things. We – I – just need to apologize to you in person. Sir.”

Phil smiles. It probably isn't as bland as his usual smile, but it makes everyone else relax a fraction. “Apologies accepted. That goes for all of you.” He shifts, the movement jolting his fresh stitches. “Now go home and get some rest. That's an order.”

“Sir,” Steve says with a small smile.

“It is good to see you in high spirits, my friend,” Thor says – quietly, for him – and pats Phil's leg. “You are strong, in body as well as in mind. I shall visit soon.”

Bruce raises his hand hesitantly in a sort of half-wave at Phil, his self-deprecating smile even sadder than usual. Phil sees the scientist give Tony a brief look, and Tony doesn't acknowledge it. They don't say a word to each other, and Bruce eventually shuffles out. Phil sighs internally.

Both Natasha and Tony hesitate noticeably, which Phil finds more unnerving than anything else s far this morning. It's clear they both need a word with him, but even with Tony shifting on his feet and staring at the floor, Natasha's face and posture is stiff enough that Phil nods at her. She sits down on the chair Sitwell had slept in, and Tony's face shutter further.

“Tony?” Phil says and tries not to sound coddling. “If you could wait outside, I need to have a word with you later.”

He doesn't really, but it's clear that Tony does, and Phil knows of the billionaire's near non-existent history of asking for help. Tony flashes him a pale version of his usual, winning grin, says “Sure thing, boss-man,” and heads out.

Phil turns to Natasha. She is staring at the floral cover-pattern on the bed and doesn't say a word.

“Natasha?” Phil says, deliberately softening his voice. His hip and shoulder aches, as does the scar in his chest, and he resolutely pushes all those aches away to deal with his asset and... well, close friend.

Natasha shakes her head and scoots the chair closer. When she puts her head down next to his hand, it's only natural to place it on her bouncy, red curls. Phil doesn't move his hand; doesn't stroke her hair or pet. Just keeps a hand on her head, grounding, letting Natasha settle in her own mind, in a place where she knows she is safe.

“I was in love,” she says after a long silence. Her voice is hollow, the way she usually only sounds if she's talking about the Red Room or 'James', the rumored Winter Soldier.

“With Maria?” Phil asks.

“And Loki.”

Phil closes his eyes and leans back. Under his palm, Natasha's neck feels deceptively frail, and he lets gratitude wash over him and the left-over feelings of hurt that lingers from yesterday. There are only two people Natasha bares her neck to, and Phil is one of them. Phil is _still_ one of them, despite Loki's spell.

Phil hums, but doesn't know what to say that doesn't sound silly or patronizing, so in the end he stays quiet. Knows that usually, Natasha prefers gestures of reassurance rather than words.

“I haven't been in love since James,” she says, and turns her head so she can see his face. Her eyes are shuttered; impenetrable as always.

“Maybe that was the point,” Phil says. He heard Natasha tell Loki on the Helicarrier that love is for children, but he has known for as long as he's been her handler, that love is not something Natasha wants. Not the romantic kind, at least. It's only after years of working together, saving each other, bleeding for each other, that Phil is allowed to love her the way he (and Clint) does: as friends, as colleagues, as people who cares.

Natasha closes her eyes and nods, once. Her breathing pattern is deliberately slow and even, but she doesn't hide her twitching fingers from Phil; an obvious sign of how much Loki's mind spell has ripped up old wounds inside Natasha's head.

Phil can't even begin to fathom how Clint's mind-space must be right now.

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real chapter warnings on this one, aside from the - pretty obvious - fact that neither Bruce nor Tony had stellar childhoods. Also, apologies for the rambly conversation - Tony's brain. *shrugs*

Phil startles awake to an empty room. It worries him, even if only in the back of his mind, that the drugs he's on are strong enough to keep him from noticing when Natasha left the room. Phil doesn't know how long he slept, since there is no clock, but the slight pounding in his skull and the dryness of his throat suggests it was a while.

Phil has a prickling feeling of being watched. He looks at the ceiling. “Clint?”

No answer. Phil keeps staring at the white tiles, and after a while, the feeling dissipates. He sighs and stretches for a glass of water on the night stand.

There's another twenty minutes before Tony pokes his head in, clearly expecting to find Phil still asleep. When he sees that the other man's awake, Tony gives him a crooked, tired grin and steps into the room. “Agent, how's the world treating you?”

“Better than yesterday,” Phil says, and makes sure there is no weight to his words. His shoulder twinges sharply when he reaches for the glass again, and Tony hands it to him before he can spill water all over himself.

“If the only requirement for a good day is that you don't get shot-” Tony blinks. “No, actually, that does sound like a SHIELD agent's version of a good day.” He sits down, feet bouncing against the floor.

“Precisely,” Phil says with a smile. “And you can call me Phil, Tony. I've been the Avengers' handler for months now and you've seen me almost die twice. I think we're there.” He drains his glass and leans back against his pillows.

Tony's grin is plastic fake. “Oh, but I always thought 'Agent Agent' was something special we had, Phil.” His feet still bounce at a rapid beat, and he tugs absently at the cuff-links of his crisp, scarlet shirt every now and then.

Phil sighs. “Tell me what's on your mind, Tony.”

“Mind? Mine? There's nothing on my mind,” Tony says and waves a hand at him. “I barely know where my mind's at, most of the time – it's all over the place, you know that, and Bruce always says-” but there he cuts off with something like a twinge and looks down at the floor.

“Are you two having trouble?” Phil says, and a part of his brain is laughing itself silly at the genuine concern in his voice. Three months ago, Phil would have made it perfectly clear that Tony (and Bruce) should clean up their own messes; that Phil wasn't the Avengers' nanny and he certainly wasn't their dating expert. While he still isn't good at giving dating advice, Phil has long since realized that he's far more like Nanny Jo Frost than he ever thought he would be.

“What, me and Bruce? Nah,” Tony says and tries for that smile again. “No, we're fine. I mean, we fucked up our whole – thing – while we were under Loki's spell and now Bruce won't talk to me and I keep remembering this- this stuff we said when we were, but you know what? Doesn't matter. It's fine.” He shifts in his chair, uncomfortable and fidgety. “It's none of your concern, Phil. It's our fault.”

“The last time I checked, that would be _Loki's_ fault,” Phil points out gently.

Tony's brown eyes flicker up at his own for a brief moment, before they're back to glancing around the room. “Right. Yeah, that's, y'know. Totally what I meant.”

It is almost impossible to reconcile the calm, professional, too-honest version of Tony with this man, but Phil finds he likes the real Tony endlessly better. Even with all his rambly evasion techniques. “Tony,” Phil says through a sigh. “Please tell me what I can see you're bursting to tell me.”

“Nothing,” Tony says way too quickly, almost panicked. “No, seriously, just looking after you, Agent Agent and was I ever like that?”

Phil blinks and rewinds that last sentence. “Were you ever like what?”

Tony jumps to his feet and starts pacing the room at an impressive speed. “Like that. Like – like I was earlier. Am I like that?”

“No,” Phil says, frowning. “I thought you understood the basics of a reversal spell.”

He expects Tony to start a tirade about his genius self, or at least give Phil a wounded glare, but Tony just looks more frustrated. “Yeah, but have I ever _been_ like that? Like – I don't fucking know, like a robotic version of How-” he stops the sentence and stops walking, eyes almost comically wide. Like he had no idea of what he was going to say before he did.

Phil never met Howard Stark, though he knows that Fury worked closely with the genius for many years. He's read up on the inventor, though – mostly in preparation for his assignment on Tony, way before the Avengers, but also as part of his own research concerning Captain America. He knows that Tony shares a remarkable similarity with his father pre-war, something that Steve especially seems to notice every now and then.

But Phil also knows that Howard changed after the war, and not necessarily for the better. His inventions remained brilliant – though his greatest achievement was always the Captain – but the man closed himself off from the world and everyone in it. Everyone, including his own boy. Phil thinks about Tony under the spell; about his sharp intellect and seeming lack of empathy. Thinks about Tony's cruel sense of humor and his drawled, deliberate sentences; about how disturbingly different and robotic he was.

“No,” Phil says. “You've never been like that. And neither was your father, from what I know.”

Tony presses his lips together and gives Phil a dubious look, but doesn't contradict him. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his expensive, white designer jeans and stares at the small window in the corner, changing his stance every few seconds.

“For that matter,” Phil continues when he sees that the rigid lines of Tony's shoulders haven't budged an inch, “neither did I think you were anything like the robots you have invented. Or JARVIS.”

“Of course JARVIS isn't like a robot,” Tony scoffs, closer to his old, insufferable self than Phil has seen him so far today. “I made him to be like-” he glances over at Phil, seemingly wondering how much Phil knows about his life already. He must guess the right amount – a _lot_ – because he picks up the thread again. “Like Edwin. And Edwin was... the most human guy I ever met, I think. Yinsen reminded me of him.” Again, Tony looks startled over how freely his words come. A few spots of color appear high on his pale cheeks and the look he gives Phil is hard. Daring.

Phil has no intention to stomp all over that display of trust, so he smiles. “I suspect JARVIS' inherent human qualities is why I liked your AI long before I stopped finding you intolerable.”

One beat. Then a smile, a _real_ one, appears on Tony's face, and his posture finally relaxes. “Yeah,” he says with a pleased huff and sits back down in the chair, unfolding into his usual sprawl. “J always liked you. Took me a while to figure out why.” He folds his hands on his stomach.

Phil nods his head at that compliment – because it _is_ a huge compliment – and catalogues the signs of fatigue on Tony's face. The deep bags under his eyes, the day-old stubble, the deepened crinkles around his eyes and mouth, making him seem older than he is. “How long is it since you last slept, Tony?”

“Only a day or so,” Tony says and scrubs a hand over his face. He frowns. “Possibly two.”

“Would it work if I ordered you to go to bed?”

“It's-” Tony grimaces and starts bouncing his feet again. “The workshop's a bigger mess than usual, and my bed is – there's – Bruce has stuff all over the apartment and I don't wanna...” He never says what exactly he doesn't want, but his face contorts with fresh hurt before he hides it behind one of his usual, bland masks.

“Tony,” Phil says, softer than he intended.

“I said he wasn't special,” Tony says suddenly, almost barks, and looks at Phil. “You remember that?”

“I do,” Phil says, feeling exhaustion start to cloud his senses again. He pushes it away and tries to focus.

“Which is – I can't even believe, that's such bullshit,” Tony rambles and drags a hand through his carefully styled hair. “Because he _is_ , even from a scientific perspective, he's fucking Bruce Banner, but that's not – that's not -” he makes a frustrated noise.

“Tony,” Phil says gently. “Why aren't you having this conversation with Bruce?”

“Because he wouldn't believe me!” Tony shouts. “Everything I said when I was, about him not being enough or special or just, that I could have something better, Bruce _believes_ all that stuff! And even if he didn't hear what I said at the time, I still _said_ it, Phil – I still said everything that he's gotten beat into him since he was a fucking kid!” Tony scrambles to his feet again and almost runs over to the door, but doesn't get further than grabbing the handle before the fight goes out of him. He thumps his forehead against the door, once. “I just – I can't, Phil.”

Phil swallows. There is a level of irony here, perhaps – that so much of what Tony's saying also applies to the inventor himself, but Phil won't say that out loud. Tony is no more liable to believe that than Bruce is. “You should tell him,” he says instead.

Tony doesn't turn. “Tell him what.”

“What you told me. All the horrible things you said about him while you were under the spell.”

Tony spins around, a look of betrayal and pure anger on his face, though he somehow manages to hang onto the door handle – like an anchor. “The _fuck_ , Phil?”

Phil pushes away his own thoughts and feelings on the subject – on similar subjects – and focuses on staring Tony right in the eyes. “If you tell him that, then you will also, in a way, tell him the opposite. That's the nature of the spell, isn't it? To me, it sounded – sounds – like you think Bruce _is_ good enough. That he's special to you, and that you think the world of him.” Phil lets out a small sigh and does not think about a certain archer. “And everything he said to and about you would be the same way.”

Tony does a remarkably good impression of a fish: bulging eyes, 'O' mouth and all. He lets go of the door handle and lets his hands fall to his sides. “That... how do you always make sense, Phil?” he says, finally. His voice is scratchy, but there's something like hope in his eyes.

“It's my superpower,” Phil says and gives Tony his blandest smile. “Please go find your scientist now and leave me alone.”

Tony lets out a startled laugh and opens the door. “Hey,” he says, right before he leaves. “You're getting a 'Get Well' present, by the way. I realize we didn't actually give you much beyond flowers when you first came back from the dead, so. Now you know.” He does a little flourish with his hands, and the display is strangely downplayed and un-Tony-like.

Phil watches him and tries to look stern, but he's probably too tired to succeed. “Should I be worried?”

Tony grins. “See, I get that you _would_ be, but no. You're gonna love her.”

Phil blinks. He quashes down his first thought – that Tony has gone and gotten him some mail-order bride – and only asks “ 'Her'?” with as much dignity as he can momentarily muster.

Tony just winks and slips out of the room, leaving Phil to his own troubled thoughts. Luckily, sleep drags him down before he can ponder for too long, and he doesn't hear how one of the tiles in his ceiling shifts, just barely.

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still on a road trip for another couple of weeks, which is why my updates are sporadic. But they are there! And the boys are being more difficult than I thought (apparently getting mind-raped gives you issues, WHO KNEW), so I still don't know how long this thing will be. Anyway, enjoy for now:)

They must have lowered his dosage, because the next time Phil drifts to the surface, it's to the sound of his door opening. It's Sitwell who enters, nodding at him. “Morning, boss.”

“Is it?” Phil says, still feeling bleary. He rubs a hand across his face to wake up, while Sitwell opens the blinds in the small window to let a stream of light into the pale-white room.

“Nine thirty sharp,” Sitwell says and flops down in his chair. “Would've thought you'd have bullied someone into giving you a phone or something by now.”

“It's on my list,” Phil says and yawns. “Anything to report?”

“Not much, sir,” Sitwell says and stretches his legs, the edges of his ill-tailored suit pants riding up around his ankles. “Fury's still trying to contain the shit-storm that's raging around here and get everyone a psych talk before they try to kill anyone. You're on the list as soon as you're out of this room.”

“Noted,” Phil says, and smiles. He doesn't feel a particular need to open himself up to one of SHIELD's undoubtedly talented psychologists, but has to concede that he probably needs it. 

The door opens again, and a nurse steps through. She checks him over quickly and efficiently, keeping her dialogue to a minimum. This is far from the first time Phil has landed in here with a near-fatal gun-shot wound or three.

“You should be good to go tomorrow, provided you're moving back into Stark Tower?” she asks after checking his chart. Sitwell chuckles.

“Do I have a choice?” Phil asks, sitting up as the nurse fixes his pillows.

“Sure,” she chirps, a twinkle in her eyes. “You can stay here for another few weeks.”

“Stark Tower it is, then.” Phil sighs. He dozes, despite his best efforts, while the nurse changes his dressings.

Sitwell watches him patiently. “Reminds me of Krakow,” he says.

“That was swords, not bullet wounds,” Phil says and nods at the nurse as she leaves.

“Same diff,” Sitwell says and plucks at his cuticles, before his face suddenly brightens. “So! The hallway outside your office has been repainted. Did you know?”

Phil sits up a little. “So soon?”

Sitwell shrugs and chews his fingernail absently. “Wasn't the janitorial staff, they haven't started any of that clean-up yet. All they've done is lock your office until it gets, y'know, sorted out.”

“Someone else painted the hallway?” Phil asks, blinking.

Sitwell chuckles and glances up at the ceiling. “Yeah. 'Someone'.”

Warmth fills Phil's stomach, and he wonders if Sitwell is right. He pointedly doesn't look up when he asks, “Has anyone seen Agent Barton since Loki reversed the spell?”

“Not that I know of, sir,” Sitwell says with a shake of his head. “I know Agent Nguyen is supposed to alert Barton of his mandatory psych eval, but she can't find him either.”

Phil sighs. When he opens his mouth again, he makes sure his voice is loud enough that any assassins hiding in his ceiling would be certain to hear. “If he doesn't show in another twelve hours, send a search party through the vent to make sure he's not dead.”

“Sir,” Sitwell nods. He's still smirking.

~*~

The team – minus Clint – visit the next morning to help Phil home to the Tower. Tony had offered them all rooms there as soon as the tower was reasonably repaired after the Chitauri attack, and after he'd taken the team's polite declines as an incentive to 'sweeten the deal', he'd designed specific floors for each of them. In the months after Phil's slightly exaggerated death, the team had come together, and one by one, everyone had moved in with their local genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist.

When Phil had been well enough to return to the land of the living, Tony had immediately – after a long tirade at Fury – begun building an apartment for Phil, too. By now, the team and their handler-slash-nanny have been living together for half a year.

Steve supports Phil between the car and the elevator, the elevator and his apartment. He can walk with a crutch, just about, but with one shoulder still mostly out of commission, Phil is wobbly as all hell and every movement hurts. Of course, it does help a little that it's Captain America resting a guiding hand against his side, something Steve probably knows well.

Thor is subdued, and though he smiles and tells Phil it's good to have him back – in his usual, Shakespearian way – his smile seems hollow, and he excuses himself as soon as Phil is settled on his couch.

“Yeah, Big, Blonde and Boisterous is kinda quiet these days,” Tony says when he notices Phil's minuscule frown. “Something about him losing his hammer's trust again, coupled with the fact that he remembers hating Loki.” Tony shrugs. “Well, hating everyone, really.”

Phil nods and vows to have a talk with the Asgardian as soon as possible. Loki is still imprisoned on Earth, for the moment – since he managed to escape Asgard's imprisonment after his attempt to take over Earth one year ago. In the privacy of his own mind, Phil wonders if a brief visit to the deranged demigod could bring something good with it.

Steve fixes him a large bottle of water from the sink, and Natasha is off to the bedroom for his bedspread and some additional blankets. Tony and Bruce flutter around Phil's living room, not really doing anything, but Phil notes with relief that they both seem happy about the other's presence. When Natasha's back with the pillows and quietly – deadly – starts fussing over him, Phil notices past her shoulder that Bruce brushes his fingers over the back of Tony's palm.

Tony quirks a smile and leans in for a brief kiss on Bruce's cheek. Phil smiles and lets Natasha mother him in her own, slightly terrifying way.

“Now sleep,” she says and gives him a no-nonsense stare. Clint once had the balls to call her Babushka, after he'd taken a metal pipe through the leg and she was fussing over him. He awoke the next day with puke-green hair and pink-bleached teeth, and that was the last time he made fun of Natasha's mother instincts.

Phil still has a picture of that in an album somewhere.

“I saw Clint last night,” Natasha says when she's made sure Phil is as comfortable as he can get.

“You did?”

She nods. “He doesn't look good, but I don't think he's in any immediate danger.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and folds up next to him. “He said he only came to see me because you'd send a search party if he didn't reveal himself to someone soon.”

Phil nods at that; it answers the question of whether Clint has spent some time in his hospital ceiling. “How did he seem?”

Natasha leans back in the couch and frowns, slightly. “Exhausted. Angry. Scared. But he's working on something – he told me. He said he needed me to make sure he wasn't taken in for another few days, because he had some stuff to finish.”

Phil frowns with her, at that. “ 'Some stuff '?”

“Important stuff,” Natasha says and twirls another, stray lock. "His words." Unlike the clichéd image, Natasha doesn't look 'cute' when she twirls her hair. Instead it makes her lock seem like a balisong.

Phil sighs and leans back against his vast array of fluffy pillows. “Do you think I should?”

Natasha watches him for a long time, her beautiful eyes devoid of any emotion. Then she nods once, almost haltingly.

“Okay. I will.” Phil has a close working relationship with both his agents, but he never fools himself to believe that he's as close with either of them as they are with each other. He sends a text to Sitwell and Nguyen, telling them to back off and let Clint come out of hiding at his own speed.

Steve returns with the water, and wipes off the bottom of the bottle before he puts it down on Phil's living room table. “I put a few ice cubes in there, so it'll keep cool for longer,” he tells Phil. Phil can't help but smile at his earnestness.

“Cap, once again you save the day,” Tony says and re-emerges from who-knows-where to pat Steve on the back. Bruce slinks in too, looking a little flushed, and Phil suddenly decides that he doesn't need to know.

“We, uh, should probably leave you to get some rest,” Bruce says and smooths his hands down his slightly rumbled shirt.

“Ah, Bruce, thou speaketh the truth,” Tony says and pulls the scientist closer to ruffle his bouncy curls. Bruce looks disgruntled, but it's a put-upon expression and Phil can easily see how pleased Bruce is underneath the façade.

“If you need anything, let us know,” Steve says and looks around the room a final time. “At least one of us will be on the Avengers' floor, I reckon, if you're looking for some company.”

Natasha's mouth curls upwards at that, and perhaps also at Phil's slightly goofy answering smile. She's standing before anyone notices that she started to move, and bends down to give Phil a brief, soft hug that doesn't at all jostle his stitches. “I'll keep an eye on the vents,” she says into his ear before she pulls back.

The incomplete team filters out, Bruce hanging back after the others. They let him, and Phil settles himself more firmly in his little couch nest. 

“You talked to Tony,” Bruce says when they're alone in the room, a small, sad smile on his face. 

“Tony mostly talked to me, really,” Phil says.

Bruce huffs, eyes crinkling. “He does that.”

“Did it help?” Phil asks, though he could see the answer the moment he saw Bruce and Tony back in the same room together.

“It did.” Bruce takes off his glasses and starts cleaning them, one glass by one. “I meant to tell you, but, uh... thanks for putting up with me back when. I wouldn't have cared to keep the Other Guy in check, and he wanted to, uh, smash you really badly.” He studiously does not meet Phil's eyes.

Phil blinks. “The Hulk was reversed too?”

“Oh, very much so,” Bruce says and puts his glasses back on, shuffling his feet. “He felt pretty good about most everything, really – but he would probably have beaten you and the others in the, uh, team to a pulp. So.” He gives Phil a lopsided smile. “I'm glad that didn't happen.”

“So am I,” Phil says, chuckling. “And I'm glad you and Tony seem... alright.”

Bruce ducks his head. “Well. That too. Thank you for that, too.”

Phil gives him a nod, and Bruce shuffles towards the door, but stops.

“Tony told me what he said to you when he was under the spell, and what he means now that he's back to normal,” Bruce says and glances over at Phil. “And I'm... making amends, the way I can.”

Phil watches the scientist in silence, unsure where he's going with this.

Bruce smiles, though he looks exceptionally tired. “What I mean, is... I can see why Clint still hasn't approached you.”

“Clint?” Phil blurts out, despite himself.

Bruce makes a 'mmm' sound and nods. “I imagine he might be doing the same thing right now. He did, uh, shoot you.” And he lets out a quiet chuckle.

“The... same?” Phil asks, and blames the painkillers for the fact that he's so very lost in this conversation.

“Making amends,” Bruce murmurs, and drums his fingers on the doorway. “The ways he can.” And with that, he gives Phil a little parting wave and leaves.

Phil sits in the living room, TV off, lost in his own jumbled thoughts.

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, guys, Clint isn't going to hide for forever. The next chapter's gonna be a long one; until then, have some Pepper and Fury.

“I wish you'd stop almost dying all the time, Phil,” Pepper says when she walks straight through the room and into his kitchen. “It's stressing me out.”

Phil sits up slowly, sluggishly. “I'm very sorry. I try.” His usual SHIELD physiotherapist, Terrance, came by for the first time this afternoon, and though they started out easy, Phil is still exhausted. His limbs ache with exertion and he's unbelievably thirsty, though not quite thirsty enough to get out of the couch and hobble over to the kitchen area.

“Well, try harder,” Pepper says with a glint in her eyes, and starts making tea for them both.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat, and not another word is said before the English Breakfast tea has finished brewing and she sets two mugs down on the living room table. “I'll get you some water,” she says before he can mention anything, and finds a bottle of Evian in the fridge. Phil can't remember having bought that, which means it's probably there thanks to JARVIS.

“Not that I don't appreciate you coming in here without knocking,” Phil says, and Pepper chuckles, “but don't you have a company to run? I don't want to keep you from your job and it's –” he glances at his watch, “one in the afternoon.”

“Lunch break,” she says and pulls out a small Tupperware box from her purse. “I'm multi-tasking.” When she pops off the lid, an aroma of cinnamon and blueberries reaches Phil. He dimly realizes he's hungry, and he hasn't been that in a while.

“Did you get that recipe from Natasha?” Phil asks with a small smile. They used to share lunch, all three of them – Clint, Natasha and Phil – in his office, his two agents curled up on his small couch. That smell of blueberry and cinnamon salad usually came with those lunches, and it takes him back.

Phil wonders if his office is still charred and sprayed with urine. He half wants to visit HQ just to see.

“She gave me some pointers,” Pepper says and jolts him out of his thoughts. “The sesame seeds were my own thing, but she showed me how amazing cinnamon can be.” She grins and spears a berry with one of Phil's forks. “So, Phil. How are you doing?”

Pepper's eyes are sharp as Clint's when they want to be, and Phil has no hope to conceal everything wrong from them. “I've been better,” he says and downs half the bottle of water in one go.

Pepper nods, and waits for him to finish drinking before she goes back to her x-ray stare. “Tony told me the gist of Loki's spell, but he wouldn't say what happened or how you got shot.” The unspoken _so you're going to tell me right now_ rings clear.

“I learned in an unusual way that I have all my agents', and Avengers', respect,” Phil says and picks up his tea mug to keep his hands occupied. He's being deliberately vague, but with Pepper, he can be.

“Was it really bad?” Pepper asks and takes another bite of her salad without looking away from him.

“They covered my office in graffiti, urine and feces,” Phil sighs. “And Clint shot me three times.”

Pepper's mouth makes a perfect 'O', and Phil can see where her dark, but subtle lipstick ends and the real pink of her lips begin. Her eyes are wide as saucers, before they turn sad in the corners. “Oh Phil, I'm so sorry. That must have been a terrible day.” She leans forward and squeezes his hand, and Phil appreciates the small point of contact more than he would have thought.

“It's a compliment of sorts,” he says and shrugs with his good shoulder.

She doesn't let his hand go. “That doesn't make it any less terrible while it goes on.”

“Perhaps not.”

Pepper nods at that, like he said the right thing, and leans back to resume eating. Phil drinks absently from his mug, and notes that Pepper knows exactly how he wants his tea (no sugar, a splash of milk) even though they've never had it together before.

“So have you and Clint made up yet?” she asks after a while.

Phil watches her for a long time before he shakes his head. “Not really, no. He's avoiding me. Everyone, really. It's – it's not a problem yet, but it's getting to be.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “Apparently there's something important he's doing – I don't know what it is.”

Sipping from her own mug, Pepper nods and re-crosses her legs. Her Manolo Blahnik's look new and shiny red; a wonderful contrast to her hair. Phil has always appreciated Pepper's sense of esthetics, as well as her no-nonsense business sense and the ability to keep Tony more or less in one piece.

Phil doesn't realize he's staring at Pepper's shoes until her eyes turn sympathetic again. “You really miss him, don't you?” she murmurs.

Phil curls his hands tighter around the half-empty tea mug. “I just wish I could... ask him,” he says quietly.

“What it all meant?”

Phil nods. Pepper is peeking more under his walls of defense than he's strictly comfortable with, but he trusts her. She's part of this team, too.

Pepper sighs and puts down her empty lunch box, before fitting herself against Phil's side. She leans in for a careful, side-ways hug. “Phil, even _I_ can see what Clint probably meant, and all I have are cryptic words from Tony and your little tale.” She smiles at him and pulls back. “I think you two will be more than fine. I've never seen you or Clint scared – I don't think you're about to start now.”

“Perhaps,” Phil says, and Pepper sighs.

~*~

Phil's third day home in the Tower (and it strikes him as odd that he now, entirely without irony, calls this place his home), Phil gets tired of his work-ban and tries to hack SHIELD. By 'hack', of course, he means 'call Sitwell and ask a couple of questions'.

Phil can live a few weeks without doing paperwork, it's not that. It's Clint's absence that's making Phil antsy, and until the archer decides to stop hiding, Phil resigns himself to look at SHIELD footage of the archery range at HQ. Except when he talks to Sitwell, and subsequently gets said footage (with some help from JARVIS), it's clear that Clint isn't there. Hasn't been there at all since the spell, actually – which makes it nine days and only two more days away from a personal record for Clint.

“Where are you, Clint?” Phil mutters to himself as he fast-forwards through the security footage, not catching the man's face a single time. He tries the security feed outside his office as well, but there's nothing. The private offices of the ranking handlers are without security cameras, and Phil can't find Clint in any part of HQ. 

The thought that Clint seem to have lived exclusively in the ventilation system for over a week isn't particularly reassuring, but he trusts Natasha's judgement and forces himself to let the subject lie for now. He concentrates on working on his hip and shoulder, as much as he can when Terrance isn't here. He sleeps a lot. Sometimes, the other members of the Avengers will stop by and entertain him – or, in Tony's case, annoy him – for an hour or two. It would be uncomfortable, if Phil didn't get the sense that they all actually want to be here. Steve talks to him about MOMA and the Met, Tony talks about everything and nothing at a ridiculous speed, Bruce comes here just to read and get a break from Tony – though he never puts it exactly like that –, Thor comes with questions about Midgard and sometimes brings Jane along, and Natasha has taken to cleaning her weapons and equipment on his living room floor. It all feels strangely domestic and normal, and if it weren't for the continuous absence of a certain archer, it would be one of the more pleasant recuperation weeks in Phil's years in SHIELD. With his fatigue, Phil doesn't even have the energy to be properly bored.

Phil hobbles out of his bedroom after an afternoon nap to see his boss sitting in the high-back chair in the corner. “I suppose knocking is beneath you,” Phil says and sinks down into his usual couch spot, putting his crutch by one of the arm rests.

Fury grins. “Goddamn right it is. How are you holdin' up, Cheese?”

“Not dead,” Phil says and reaches for his Hulk-sized (literally – it's shaped like the Hulk) mug of decaffeinated tea, courtesy of Bruce.

“So I heard,” Fury says, with a near imperceptible hint of fondness that Phil doesn't think anyone other than him can hear. “I brought some toys for you.” He leans forward, and a stack of folders slap down onto the coffee table.

“You know me so well.” Phil reaches for the first and flips it open, but doesn't immerse himself in it. He hasn't seen Fury since Loki's reversal, at least not one-on-one, and it's not really customary for the Director of SHIELD to randomly pop by his apartment. “Is that the only reason you're here?”

“Maybe I missed you,” Fury says dryly. Like with Phil, most of the junior – and many of the senior – agents believe the Director has no sense of humor. Phil mostly adopted the dry irony from Fury and made it his own, years ago.

“Cute. How was the reversal?” It's a question he couldn't ask unless Phil was who he is, and even now, he leans back in the couch with his bland smile – letting Fury know that he doesn't have to answer. He's curious, though. The security footage of HQ for that entire day has been erased, so Phil will never get to see it for himself.

“Cried like a fucking baby,” Fury says, the chair creaking slightly when he shifts. “Good thing you didn't stop by for a chat – I wouldn't have missed, like Barton.”

“That's what I figured,” Phil says and takes a sip, not meeting his friend's eyes. It's a tell that will not pass Fury by, he knows.

“What's that, Cheese?”

Phil shakes his head, but Fury's eye is on him now. “Barton. He's hiding.”

Fury doesn't move, or say a word, but Phil still gets the feeling he's amused.

“Do you know something I don't, Nick?” It's a rhetorical question, of course – Fury probably knows twice as much as Phil does, which is saying a lot.

The minuscule wrinkles around Fury's eye crinkle.

“Something about Barton?” Phil scans the man's face, and he is excellent at what he does, but Fury is better. Phil sees nothing in his eye, or in the weathered lines of the man's face. “Something you're not going to tell me. I trust it's not going to come back and bite me in the ass?”

“Or shoot you in the ass,” Fury says lightly, and rises to his feet. “I've got a bet with the rest of the senior agents, and a couple of your kids.” Fury grins again, one of his more terrifying smiles. “Don't fuck it up.”

“Bet?” Phil says and moves to stand up, but a look from his superior makes him sit back. “I don't know about any bet.”

“That's the point,” Fury snorts and walks out of the apartment, leather coat swishing behind him. “Don't fuck it up, Phil.”

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here we go.
> 
>  **Chapter warnings:** Discussions of past sexual situations with dubious consent at best (read: that time in Phil's office) and implied self-shaming on Clint's side. Angst. More hurt than comfort, possibly - I'll let you guys be the judge of that.
> 
> Also pining. So much pining.

The first thing Phil notices when he wakes up, instantly and quietly, is that his shoulder is barely aching. His hip is still throbbing like it always does, and will undoubtedly give him grief when he tries to sit up and get moving, but his other aches are minor; undistinguishable. It's refreshing.

The second thing Phil notices is the small key on his night stand. He picks it up without looking too closely at it; it's familiar and worn and still warm, as if it were held in another's hand just a few minutes ago. It's the key to his office – an office that, according to Sitwell, still hasn't been cleared after the shit-storm that happened close to two weeks ago.

Phil turns the key in his hand, pondering. There are only three people in this world that can sneak into Phil's room without him waking up. Not so much because they are too silent for him to hear – although they could be – but because he trusts them with his life. Fury isn't the type to play games with him – not these kinds, anyway. Natasha is usually more complicated than this, if there are things she needs to tell him and doesn't want to say.

Which leaves Clint.

Phil gets dressed slowly, despite the feeling that he needs to hurry. His shoulder is having a good evening and he doesn't want to jinx it; doesn't want to accidentally hurt himself and stand Clint up in the process. Phil has no idea why the archer wants to meet up in the ruined remains of Phil's office – and Phil shoves down the part of his mind that tells him it's to gloat; that Clint feels exactly like he behaved under Loki's curse – but this is the first point of contact he's gotten since he was shot, and nothing is taking that chance away from him.

The drive to HQ is long, and he forces himself not to doze in the cab. The inability to drive himself around is more frustrating and tangible now than it usually is, since Stark Tower has most everything anyone has needs for and Phil can hobble around on his crutch there.

It's late enough that the number of agents at HQ is low, and Phil only needs to nod a terse hello to a handful of people before he's back in his familiar hallway. Sitwell was right – the hallway has been re-painted, and is as bland and cream white as ever. It's as if nothing was ever tagged here, and Phil wishes his own memory was as easy to scrub clean. He fumbles a little with the lock to his office, more to alert Clint than anything else, and notes the strips of tape still hanging to the door, warning him not to enter.

It smells different in here. Phil's office is bathed in darkness, but the _smell_ – Phil remembers all too well the stench of burnt carpet and piss from the last time he was here. Now it smells like fresh paint and saw dust and, strangely enough, coffee, and Phil reaches to his right and flips the light switch.

He's alone in the room. In the _unfamiliar_ room that used to be his office. His desk is there, in the middle of the small space, but that's the only thing he can identify by sight. There is a new water cooler in the corner by his left, a new, gray-striped couch, and a small, neat table with a tiny bonsai tree in another corner. The walls have been painted over – instead of the same cream color it shared with the hallway outside, the room is now a light, comfortable peach color, like a very early sunrise. There are new pictures hanging on the wall, some bland and impersonal, but others different. There are at least three, small charcoal drawings – one depicting what looks like a part of Central Park, another showing a scenic shot of a bunch of rooftops, and the third being the kitchen in Stark Tower – and Phil recognizes the style of them immediately. These are Steve's drawings.

Phil has genuine Captain America drawings in his office.

His carpet used to be coarse, and a pale grey; now it's navy-blue and softer. It matches the rest of the office – everything matches, neatly, and is somehow very anonymous whilst still being strangely _Phil_. He just stares; turns around in a slow circle, taking everything in, his mind reeling.

A barely-there thump behind him lets Phil know that he's no longer alone. “I loved you,” comes Clint's voice, quiet, but still deafening in the silence that surrounds them. “That was the problem.”

Phil turns.

Clint looks harried; thinner than he was two weeks ago. The bags under his eyes look so deep Phil isn't sure if they'll ever go away, and there is a pinched, pained quality to Clint's entire frame that hurts to look at. He holds himself stiffly, the way Phil usually associates with too many hours on the shooting range and too little rest, and there are flecks of paint all over his track pants and SHIELD-issued sweater.

It's only then, after taking in Clint's physical appearance and making sure that the archer is actually alive and _there_ , that Phil realizes what he just said. “You – what?” Phil prides himself on being eloquent even in the trickiest of situations, but now he blinks at Clint and can't for the life of him remember how to string together a sentence.

Clint snorts; a deeply unhappy sound. “C'mon, Coulson. You heard me back then. It's pretty easy to hear what I _really_ said if you flip it – all of SHIELD knows. Avengers too.” His hands are stuck deep inside his pockets and his shoulders are hunched protectively, as if he's preparing himself for a physical blow.

Phil reels through Clint's past monologue in his head and – well, yes, it's easy to interpret Clint's hatred as love, but...

“You did this?” Phil asks and looks around the room again.

“Least I could do,” Clint says and leans against the wall; places a hand on the peach-hued wall and pets it, almost. “I did do most of the tagging, after all. And some – other stuff.” His eyes glance at the floor, dark and unreadable.

And Phil is so grateful, he barely knows where to start, but Clint _still_ isn't looking at him and still looks like Phil is about to throw him out of here. “Clint,” he says and takes a few steps closer to the archer, careful not to spook him. The idea that Clint Barton can be spooked is ridiculous and Phil knows it, but it still doesn't negate the fact that the man has been hiding from Phil for the last two weeks.

Clint's eyes flicker around; to the door, to the window, to the small hole in the ceiling where he came from, and not towards Phil at all.

“Clint. Where have you _been_ these last days?” Phil asks, although that's not quite the question he meant. He hates that he sounds frustrated, sounds angry, almost, because Clint shrugs and somehow looks even smaller than he was.

“Y'know, around. Vents. Here. It took – it was a lot of stuff I needed to get out and in without anyone noticing, 'cause I don't think they'd – I mean,” and Clint leans more firmly against the wall in a deliberately casual manner, “people were still jumpy about me after Loki fucked my head up the _first_ time, and this time I shot my handler, so. Y'know. Persona non grata.”

“Fury said-” Phil begins, but Clint waves him off.

“I'm off the hook from Fury, don't worry. We all did stupid shit, I just did the most stupid and the most damage.” Clint's gaze lands on the floor again, and he swallows, almost imperceptibly. “It's just – I dunno. Lot of people don't trust me, again. Still. I dunno.” He looks up and at Phil's crutch. “How's the hip?”

“It's healing,” Phil says, because he doesn't know what to say about the rest of what Clint just told him. “All of it is. You didn't hit anything major, oddly enough.”

“Figures,” Clint says with a sharp bark of laughter, “that it would take a fucking curse to make me miss.”

Phil smiles, though it feels hollow. _Clint_ seems hollow. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly. “About everything Loki made you do.”

Clint blinks and frowns at him. “Wasn't no Loki this time, boss. Was all me.”

“No. It was all _not_ -you. That was the point of Loki's spell.” Phil takes another step forward, and when Clint doesn't move away, he reaches out and puts a hand on the archer's shoulder. “All I saw that day,” Phil says quietly, “was a lot of people doing things – sometimes people – they normally would never do. Would never _want_ to do. I don't hold it against any of them, and I don't expect anyone else to, either.”

Pink spots are appearing on Clint's cheeks now, and he steps back and out of Phil's reach. “Fucking – _Weiman_ , jesus, I have the worst taste.” He rubs a hand over his face and grimaces.

“Clint, you did not make those decisions,” Phil says, anger slipping through now. He's loath to throw words like 'rape' around, especially around Clint – who is more likely to view himself as the perpetrator than the victim and thus spiral further downwards – but that doesn't negate the fact that whatever went down in Phil's office between the four agents, it was non-consensual for everyone involved.

“Yeah, well,” is the only thing Clint says, and he sounds exhausted. Phil gets a sudden, overwhelming urge to pull the archer into a hug.

“Clint, have you attended a psychological evaluation yet?” Phil asks, deliberately softening his voice. His hip is starting to ache with the way he's standing, so he makes his way over to his new couch and sits down heavily in it. Clint doesn't follow him.

“Hell no.”

“You know they're mandatory, right?” It's not a question, and Phil isn't surprised when Clint doesn't answer. “ _Clint._ ”

“What about you, _Phil_?” Clint snaps and folds his arms across his chest. “You been talking to psych yet?”

“As you might have noticed, I've been confined to a couch for the most part of last week,” Phil snaps right back. Clint doesn't flinch – he doesn't have tells like that anymore – but his eyes do widen a fraction and Phil wants to bite his own tongue off. “I mean,” Phil amends, too late. “I'm going to. Soon. I have an appointment Wednesday.”

“Yeah.” Clint bites at his thumb nail and keeps his gaze on Phil's desk. “Good for you.”

Phil suppresses the urge to put his face in his hands. This wasn't how the conversation was meant to go – he hasn't even... “Thank you.”

Clint blinks. “What's that, sir?”

“Thank you. For this.” Phil gestures at his office before he lets his hands fall. “Just – thank you.”

The archer shrugs. “ 'S nothing.”

“No, it's-” Phil cuts off that sentence before it can lead somewhere angry and ugly. “Just – please take the compliment, Clint.”

Finally the shade of a smirk appears on Clint's face. “Fair enough. You're welcome, Phil.”

Phil leans back against the couch cushions – softer than his old leather couch, which was mostly inhabited by Clint (and sometimes Natasha) anyway. His shoulder aches and he forgot to take his painkillers before he left, too preoccupied with the key's meaning to realize he was supposed to take his nightly dosage.

Clint comes closer. “You okay, boss?”

“I'm fine.” Phil tries for one of his bland smiles, though it comes across a little more strained than he wants. 

“Yeah, try that one again with less bullshit,” Clint says and dumps down on the couch next to him, elbows on his knees and guarded eyes on Phil.

“I forgot to take my painkillers, that's all.”

Clint straightens. “What? Shit, why'd you do that?”

Phil smiles thinly. “Someone left a key on my night stand. I was curious.”

The hope that it will amuse Clint is short-lived. Instead a new wave of guilt washes over the man's features and Phil wants to kick himself. “Fuck, I'm sorry, Coulson. I should'a known-”

“It's not a problem, Barton,” Phil says, reverting to Clint's surname in an attempt to let his Agent Coulson voice pierce through. “I've had a lot worse, as you know.”

“Yeah, but-” Clint bites his lower lip and makes some kind of aborted shrug. He staples his fingers together and sits next to Phil, close enough to touch but not touching. They stare at the newly painted walls in silence, Phil's eyes resting on Steve's drawings especially, too many questions on the tip of his tongue.

_I loved you. That was the problem._

“You said...” Phil tries not to shift, because he knows it will make the awakening pain in his hip sharpen. “Loved.”

Clint huffs a laugh. He sounds so _tired_. “Said a lot of shit, Phil.”

“No, I mean...” Phil looks over at the archer. At his agent. “In past tense.”

Clint's head whips around so fast it probably hurts his neck. “Sir?”

The reminder that Phil is Clint's boss isn't helping. Phil rubs his neck with the wrong hand, jolting his shoulder and letting only a twitch show. It's one twitch too many, he knows, and Clint's face darkens.

“Okay, that's it, Phil. I'm getting you home, c'mon.” Clint springs to his feet, as if he doesn't look more fatigued than Phil is, and hooks an arm under Phil's good shoulder.

“You are _not_ supporting me, Barton,” Phil barks and straightens, gripping his crutch. He ignores the way his hip groans with pain, because he's still an agent, goddammit, and this is not his first rodeo. Never mind that his chest is still healing, on top of everything else.

“Fine, do whatever you want,” Clint mutters and walks out of the room. Phil follows him, slow and steady, out of the building and into the parking garage. When he's there, Clint is already waiting in a car that Phil thinks _technically_ belongs to Tony. “Get in, sir,” Clint says in a terse voice, the 'sir' clearly meant as an insult more than anything else, but Phil is too exhausted to argue. He just slides into the seat and buckles himself, before letting out a long breath.

Clint doesn't say anything for a while, but he keeps glancing at his boss continually as they make their way towards Stark Tower. His fingers are tight on the steering wheel and his jaw is set, but eventually, he starts humming a tune under his breath. It's familiar, a typical Barton post-mission habit, and Phil relaxes at it.

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until a quiet “Phil” wakes him. Phil doesn't tense, his eyes doesn't fly open, he doesn't suck in a sharp breath. He looks over at Clint like he never fell asleep in the first place – not that Clint is fooled – and sees the entrance of Stark Tower behind his head, outside the car.

“You fell asleep,” Clint says, unnecessarily and softly.

Phil's shoulder is throbbing. His hip and side is throbbing. His _head_ is throbbing. Phil is so tired of being tired and it's all he can do not to scream at it. Instead he says “Thank you for the ride,” and gives Clint a facsimile of a smile before he lets himself out of the car.

A hand shoots out and tightens around his wrist, and Phil nearly loses his balance. Instead he ducks down, so he can peer into the car.

“Wasn't no past tense,” Clint says, voice rough and eyes trained on the steering wheel. His grip is strong enough to border on painful for a moment, before he lets go altogether and Phil nearly stumbles out onto the pavement. “See you around, boss.”

“Clint,” Phil says, but Clint shuts the car door and is off before he can yank it back open. There's even a screech of tires and stench of burned rubber, and Phil watches the near-empty street for a long time before he curses out loud and hobbles home.

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is so increidbly late. I'm sorry, you guys.
> 
> I'm not going to re-cap my life story, so just know that a lot of life things happened, they were not all great (actually, some of them were fucking terrible but luckily enough, not all of them), and time for writing fanfiction has been virtually non-existent. But! I'm nearly at the end of this now, and I only have half the epilogue left to write. So this'll soon be finished, promise. Thank you for sticking with it, if you did. <3

“And one more,” Terrance says. Phil breathes sharply through his nose, through the pain, and tries to comply. His undershirt sticks to his sweaty skin and the mostly-healed scar in the middle of his chest is acting up worse than usual, sending periodic sparks of pain out into his arms.

It's been one of those days; his first hour with his SHIELD-issued therapist, two hours of rest, and now a grueling session with Terrance. He's known his therapist, Dr. Stanton, for almost five years; it feels like slipping into a familiar space with her, as she's been there through most of his tough missions the latest years. She's also the one who helped him deal with being dead for four minutes and bed-ridden for a month and a half, so even if she weren't at HQ when the spell happened, she knows Phil better than most of the agents here.

Phil is aware that he has some trust issues. He's also sure – based on facts, and also on Stanton's eye-roll when he tried to tell her otherwise – that those issues haven't _improved_ after Loki's latest stint. Maybe they should have. Maybe he should be able to see only the reversed messages in the ways his colleagues and friends treated him that day, and not obsess over the writings on the walls outside his office.

“And you're done for today!” Terrance says and puts a hand on Phil's shoulder, trying to guide him back down onto the couch.

“Ten more,” Phil says, even though he's out of breath and doesn't actually think he should do any more.

Terrance just says “Yeah, no, sir,” and smiles as he pushes Phil into a lying position.

“You're still my subordinate,” Phil points out, but there's no heat to his words. Terrance has been a SHIELD physical therapist for seven years, by now, and he knows when Phil can do more, and when he's just being stubborn.

“I said 'sir',” Terrance says flippantly and starts packing up his small duffel bag. Phil sighs and relaxes against the pillows, and doesn't miss Terrance's knowing smirk.

“Agent Agent!” comes Tony's voice from outside his apartment, and then a smattering of small knocks that's Tony drumming his fingers against the door. “ _Knock-knock-knockin' on Agent's doooor,_ ” he sings.

“One moment, Terry,” he says, and Terrance shrugs. “JARVIS, please let Tony in before he decides to serenade me.”

“Certainly, Agent Coulson,” JARVIS says, with that particular tone of fondness that he only gets when he's referring to his creator.

“Phil! Philip, my dearest dear,” Tony chirps and strolls inside.

“What did you do this time?” Phil says.

“You know, most of the time stuff blows up – metaphorically and literally, whatever – it's not even my fault, everyone just assumes it is,” Tony says and notices Terrance, still sitting in the couch with a small smirk and an arched eyebrow. “That can really hurt a man's confidence. It's good I'm a such a strong and confident person, who are you?”

“Tony, meet Terrance,” Phil says and does not sigh, though he knows what's coming.

“I'm a SHIELD physiotherapist,” Terrance says and does a sloppy salute. “How're you?”

“Wait.” Tony stops and looks between them, hands raised and a look of childish glee behind his red-tinted shades. “Terrance? And Philip? Like from South P-”

“Stark,” Phil interrupts him. “Just don't.”

“What?” Tony asks, petulant.

“I get testy,” Terrance says and bends down to pick up his bag, _casually_ revealing the Colt he always wears in his hip holster.

Tony whistles. “Do _any_ of you SHIELD clones have a sense of humor?”

“No,” Terrance and Phil say simultaneously, and Tony snorts.

“Cute. You're even doing the twin talking thing. Is that why Barton's jealous?”

That takes Phil by surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Barton.” Tony points vaguely behind himself. “In the living room, feeling-stinking up the place? You didn't see him?”

“Barton's back in the Tower?” Phil says and sits up.

“Yeah, he's been hogging the best TV all day,” Tony says. “I came and asked what was up, and he gave me that scowl – you know that scowl? That's not like a _scowl_ -scowl, but still makes you want to go hide in a vent and cry or something? That scowl.”

Terrance looks at Phil. “He always talk this much?”

Phil nods and buttons up his shirt. “There was a time when I would have wanted the opposite, but after the reversal spell...” He shrugs.

“Was that an actual compliment? Why, _Agent_ ,” Tony coos and folds both hands on his chest. “I'm blushing over here, don't look at me – you keep this up and Bruce's gonna be green with jealousy, badom-dish.”

“Stark, why are you _here_?” Phil asks, trying to mask his amusement. Judging by Terrance's grin, Phil isn't fooling anyone.

“Because of Clint!” Tony says and does the vague wave again. “You and Natasha are the only ones he'll listen to when he's this pissy – I don't want to get shot in the ass by an EMP arrow and yeah, Agent Agent, I think he's liable to do just that right now – and you're marginally less terrifying than Natasha is.” The billionaire grins and shuffles his feet, somehow managing to make it look like a dance step. “Plus, you and me, Phil. We've got something _special_.”

Phil grumbles and gets up; Terrance hands him his crutch.

“Guess you ain't called Supernanny for no reason, sir,” the physiotherapist says with a cheeky grin and grabs his duffel bag. “I'll see you Friday.”

Phil gives him a half-hearted glare in reply and hobbles over to the elevator, a whistling Tony Stark behind him.

~*~

Phil can hear, before he enters the living room, that Clint is watching _Friends_. Something about that makes it ache, hollow and raw, inside his chest. Clint himself is curled up in a corner of the biggest couch, not sprawled like he usually is. His position reminds Phil of Natasha, the way she sometimes tucks herself into a semi-small space where she can see the whole room and seem non-threatening. Like this, Clint looks unnaturally small.

Of course, he hears Phil and Tony before they enter the room, but doesn't move his head in their direction. “You could've just asked for the goddamn TV, Stark,” he snaps, loud and sharp.

Tony gives Phil a _see what I mean?_ look, before he waves his hands emphatically in Phil's direction and leaves the room.

Phil doesn't say anything at first, just hobbles over to the couch. He doesn't sit down, not until Clint inclines his head a fraction. Even then, Phil keeps some distance between them. It's the Friends episode where Chandler spends half the time in a big wooden box, Phil notices – to save his friendship with Joey. He wonders if things would stop being jagged and uncomfortable between him and Clint if Phil just stayed in a box for a while. Has half the mind to ask, even, but the stony silence from Clint's side doesn't invite for conversation.

Clint doesn't uncurl. He's tense, and Phil can feel an eye on him at all times, assessing the way Clint usually only does on missions (or situations where he's profoundly out of his depth).

“ _The meaning of the box is three-fold,_ ” Chandler says on-screen, and Clint says very quietly, “I wish I had a box.”

Phil turns to him. Clint stares hard enough at the TV screen that it could burst into flames at any given moment, and his thumb worries at the calluses on his index finger.

“Why?”

Clint doesn't answer that.

“ _One,_ ” Chandler explains, “ _it gives me the time to think about what I did. Two, it proves how much I care about my friendship with Joey. And three... it hurts._ ”

“You're back in the Tower,” Phil tries instead, and tries not to sound painfully curious.

“Went to the shrink. Said I should be here. So.” He shrugs.

“That's good, Clint,” Phil says softly, and means both the psych evaluation and Clint's presence. He half expected Clint to be AWOL for another week or two, considering the way he left a few days ago. Even as stilted as this version of Clint is, at least Phil knows where he is now.

“ _Is this a joke to you?_ ” Joey snaps at Chandler-in-the-box, and Clint swallows heavily. His eyes flicker over to Phil and – if Phil's eyes don't deceive him (they rarely do) – Phil's mouth.

“I talked with my therapist earlier today,” Phil says. Clint nods, but doesn't ask any questions. The silence stays, sticky and uncomfortable, making Phil want to squirm. They watch the episode, but Phil knows that neither is paying attention. There's a tension here, like a strung wire, and it keeps Phil nailed to the spot even as it pulls him towards Clint.

“Tony said,” Phil says and doesn't know where to end the sentence, but Clint huffs a laugh.

“That I was being a whiny little bitch?”

“Not his words, but... something to that effect, perhaps.” He smiles, if weakly.

“Yeah, I'm sorry.” Clint scratches the back of his neck. His spine is a strung wire all the way down to his toes.

“Don't be. It's been a rough week for everyone.” Phil doesn't mention how Clint has probably missed a lot of that, hiding in the vents at HQ and avoiding the Tower.

Clint nods and fiddles with the remote control, but doesn't change the channel. “Yeah,” he says, sounding tired. He looks ready to fall asleep, but Phil knows he'll never let that happen here, now. Clint probably doesn't trust Phil to be around him when he's sleeping anymore.

Phil wonders if maybe, sometime in the future, Clint will start taking over Phil's new couch in his new office. Do his paperwork there, lounge and talk about the mission he's just been on, take a nap when he feels like it. Phil doesn't want to think about how much he'd miss it, if Clint never did that again. 

“You need something?” Clint asks suddenly, and Phil startles out of his own thoughts.

“Hm?”

“Like, I dunno, water or anything? You've taken your painkillers, right?” Clint looks stern, which is adorable enough that Phil almost smiles, if he thought it wouldn't piss Clint off.

“Yes, Barton, I have taken all the painkillers I should.” Well, mostly. Phil doesn't see a problem with trying to wean himself off the medication, as long as he does it slowly.

Then, because he's not sure if Clint meant the question as an olive branch of sorts: “Sure. I'd like a glass of water, if you're getting up anyway.”

“Might grab a beer,” Clint says and walks out into the kitchen, steps a little heavier, a little sleepier, than usual. He comes back with a Stella and a glass of water for Phil – the latter has a lemon wedge, and Phil smiles at him.

“Thank you.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “It's seriously nothing, sir.”

Their fingers touch when Phil takes the glass, Clint's cold and wet from the condensation. Clint's eyes flicker, Phil takes a sip, Clint sits down and the awkward silence descends again. Phil sighs into his glass.

_I loved you. That was the problem._

On the screen, Chandler's girlfriend walks up to the box and starts apologising to it. She explains how she doesn't want to come between Chandler and Joey's friendship, so maybe they shouldn't see each other anymore. Chandler is silent in the box, like he's been told to be, and Joey watches from afar, a conflicted look on his face.

Phil can feel the distance between him and Clint, a physical foot and an emotional nautical mile, and puts his glass down on the table. He refused to stay dead when Loki tried to kill him, he helped the team come together and become _The Avengers_ , no matter how hard Loki tried to rip them apart. He'll be damned if he lets his and Clint's friendship – relationship – dissipate into tense silences because of that demi-god.

“Clint.”

Clint doesn't look at him immediately, and even when he does, there's reserve in his gaze. But his hands grip his beer bottle tighter, his shoulders stay tense, and Clint's eyes drop for a fraction of a moment down to Phil's lips. There's no doubt about it this time.

_Wasn't no past tense._

And there are fraternization rules in SHIELD, though they aren't as strict as in many other agencies, and Phil's no longer Clint's handler – he's the Avengers' handler now. There are complications, both in terms of Clint and Phil's headspaces, and the whole situation they are in right now. There are lots of things to consider.

But none of that stops Phil from leaning over, ignoring the twinge in his hip and chest, and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Clint's mouth. He sits back immediately – not entirely sure, still, that he won't get punched in the face for this – and doesn't miss how wide Clint's eyes are. How his mouth is slightly open and doesn't close. How he lurches back and blinks once Phil's lips have left his.

“What, what did you, what,” Clint says, almost faint, and for a moment he looks so young. Way too young for Phil. After a moment, Clint's face morphs into a grimace. “ _Really_?”

“Yes,” Phil says. Sighs, maybe.

“But – _still_?”

On-screen, Joey rips off the lid on the box and Chandler tumbles out. The two of them embrace while the audience cheers, audible even though the sound is low.

“What do you mean?” Phil asks, body turned towards Clint in the soft couch.

Clint lets out a laugh. It's brittle and sounds involuntary, and the smile he gives Phil is thin and hard. “Phil. _Fuck._ I shot you. Three times. I fucked three guys in your office, I destroyed that lily picture you had behind your desk, I almost set the whole goddamn thing on _fire_ , I-” he breaks off and looks away, at the TV, letting out a harsh breath. “On the wall outside your office, I wrote...”

“I know. I recognized your handwriting.”

Clint blanches, but doesn't say anything.

“Purple, Clint,” Phil says quietly, but with the shadow of a smile. “You weren't very subtle.”

“Fuck,” Clint says and stares at his own hands.

“Why purple, though?” Phil asks, and glances over at the archer. “It's your favorite color.”

“That was why.” One corner of his mouth quirks. “I hated that color while I was under the spell. Hated a lot of things.” He looks over at Phil again. “Why would you kiss me, Phil?”

Phil sits back in the couch, heart racing, but the ache in his hip and side dissipating, and folds his hands in his lap. “Because the timing was bad, but it has never been good, and I thought it probably wouldn't get better. Because you need to know that I don't blame you for what happened in my office.” He sees that Clint is watching him, looking – kind of terrified, actually, which Phil thinks makes two of them. “Because I'm no longer your handler, since the Avengers Initiative are not technically within SHIELD.” He sighs. “Because I love you. Pick the one you like best; they're all true.”

Clint is rigid, and Phil is more than half-sure the archer will flee for the nearest vent. “Bullshit,” he croaks out.

Phil shakes his head, a cloying feeling of rejection seeping into his bones. “All true, I'm afraid.” He smiles sadly.

Clint stares at him like he just revealed himself to be Loki, and Phil struggles – for once – to keep calm and not fidget beneath that gaze. In the end he looks calmly back, and tries to lower some of his defenses. He's already kissed Clint, already told him – there is nothing more for him to hide.

“Phil...” Clint leans forward, then stops, then leans a little more. “Then...” he says quietly and doesn't continue, only swallows, but Phil dares to hope, dares to lean in to meet him, and then they're kissing, kissing _properly_ this time, with Clint's hand on the back of his neck and Phil's hands on his archer's shirt and eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Clint is gentler than Phil had thought, hesitant and careful – thought that might well be because of the bandages Phil wears, the crutch he still has to use. Clint tilts his head so they fit better, licks at Phil's mouth, sucks gently on his bottom lip. Phil still doesn't dare to open his eyes; he's half afraid that Clint's eyes might be frightened, or cold, or even bright Tesseract-blue. So he doesn't look until they have to part for breath, when Clint shuffles closer so they can lean against each other, cheek to cheek.

Phil isn't in the position where he can formulate words yet, so he opts for a questioning noise. Like this, Clint's hand is warm and big and comfortable on his neck, and Phil is close enough to his throat that he simply _has_ to nuzzle, smell, breathe against it.

“Didn't know,” Clint mumbles, both arms coming around Phil's waist to draw him into a careful hug. “Best fucking actor, Phil, fucking should've known, but – didn't. I'm sorry.”

Phil shakes his head and hugs Clint back, feels strong back muscles under his palms, covered by those soft SHIELD t-shirts Clint wears until they fall apart at the seams.

“Sorry, Phil, I'm – fuck, I did so much – I'm sorry,” Clint continues, words mangled as he speaks them directly into Phil's skin, in the hollow where his throat meets his neck. Clint's fingers tightens on Phil's shirt and he trembles, with exhaustion or guilt or something else entirely, Phil doesn't know, but he suspects it might be all three.

“Sshh,” he says, leaning back and ignoring the flares of pain in his hip and chest, bringing Clint with him. “I should have said something – after New York, I thought about it, I wanted, but – there never seemed to be time. I didn't want you under even more pressure than you had already put yourself under.”

Clint comes willingly now, pliant like putty in Phil's arms, and if it weren't for the shaking, Phil might have thought he was calm. “Got you killed back then, Phil,” he says quietly, lying down with his head on Phil's chest as Phil's directs. “Wasn't exactly waiting for a proposal after that.”

The healing scar by Phil's heart doesn't hurt when the pressure on it is light, so he leans back and relaxes. Clint curls up on top of him and doesn't ask if this is okay, if he's heavy. Just closes his eyes and places his hand right on Phil's chest, listening intently to his heartbeat. There is pure relief on his face and Phil never wants to let him go.

“Hey there,” Clint whispers to Phil's heart.

Phil places a kiss on the top of his archer's head and doesn't say anything, just waits for the moment when Clint lets himself fall asleep. Then Phil lies, staring at the ceiling, smiling as he lets his own relief and content flood through him. He doesn't even care that they're lying in the living room, that any of the other Avengers could find them at any moment. He's too pleased that there is a 'they' to find.

“JARVIS? Could you please dim the lights?”

“Certainly, Agent.”

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. Such is the life of a Uni student in her final BA year, I'm afraid. Sorry for the long wait, and I hope you like this little epilogue. <3

“Agent,” Loki says and follows him with pin-prick dark eyes when Phil walks into the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” There's no mistaking the drip of sarcasm and contempt in his voice, and Phil is glad. He prefers this Loki to the reversed one.

“Just here to talk, Odinsson,” Phil says blandly and shuffles the papers he's brought with him. He doesn't fail to notice how Loki's mouth becomes a thin, white line at the name. “Or Laufeysson, if you prefer.”

“If you have come to gloat, I cannot stop you,” Loki says quietly, his voice silky smooth. “Although I am sure you know that it would take more than a mispronunciation of my name to elicit a reaction from me.” His hands are loosely clasped behind his back, and he's wearing the same green and gold uniform that Phil remembers from the Helicarrier.

“Oh, definitely,” Phil says and smiles, although he's sure it doesn't reach his eyes. “I just thought we'd have a chat, that's all.”

“A chat,” Loki echoes, tongue curling around the word like it tastes bad.

Phil sits down in the lone chair in front of the sturdy, magically-reinforced cell. He makes sure he doesn't twinge. “That was quite a spell,” he says and looks up at the demi-god in front of him. Phil deliberately looks relaxed and comfortable where he sits. “I'm still not sure what your overall plan was, but it was interesting, nonetheless.”

Loki's lips curl. “Is this a compliment, Agent?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I see.” His smile widens by a fraction.

“Did you always plan to fall under the spell, or was that an accident?” Phil asks, arranging his paperwork on his lap.

“What makes you think I fell under the spell, _Philip_?”

Phil smiles. He's come prepared for Loki's twisting questions. “Somehow, as good an actor as you are, I doubt you'd been able to flirt so outrageously with me without gagging.”

Loki watches him, pensive and still smiling. He's not wearing his crown, but his hair is slick and perfectly in shape, like it has never been ruffled in its entire lifespan.

“See,” Phil says and opens his file, “here is something I found interesting. When you were under the spell – or, of course, pretending to be – you seemed to take an interest in me, not to mention Agent Romanoff and Deputy Director Hill. That fits with the nature of the spell.” He looks up. “Our dislike is mutual, I can assure you.”

Loki sends him an oily smile that tells Phil where Loki wants him to shove his opinions.

He keeps talking. He was in a coma the last time he could have gloated to Loki, and he wants to try and pierce through the demi-god's walls of defense – for nothing else but to see Loki lose his composure for a moment. There is also Thor. “You also implied, however, that you hated your brother. Even if you pretended all along, I don't see why you would pretend to hate Thor. I mean, we all know there is no love lost between you two.” He arches an eyebrow.

“If I had seemed myself, would you have let me out of your sight?” Loki responds calmly.

“See, that's the thing,” Phil says. “Apart from the lack of animosity towards any Avengers or SHIELD personnel, you _did_ in fact seem yourself. A brash, narcissistic, over-confident megalomaniac.” He pulls out a report from his file and starts correcting it, as if he'd be happy to sit here all day, doing homework and chatting with the demi-god that tried to kill him seven months ago. He keeps an eye on Loki, who still looks blank and unruffled.

“Perhaps my personality is too strong to circumvent,” Loki says, a half-smile on his face. “It was a spell for Midgardians, after all.”

“Or perhaps your daily mask is just that, a mask, and the reason you keep bothering The Avengers is because you're looking for a way back to your brother.”

Loki's smile warps into a sneer. “He is _not_ my brother.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Phil says lightly and signs the report.

“It was my intention to cause division within the ranks,” Loki snarls. “Something, seeing the healing wounds you are futilely attempting to hide, I consider a success.”

Phil nearly bites off a laugh, when he thinks just how 'divided' he and Clint have become since that episode. “If you think that's all it takes to rip The Avengers apart, Hulk must have smashed you harder than anyone thinks.” This time when he smiles, it's genuine, and the look that passes over Loki's face could almost be described as alarm.

“Well,” the demi-god says eventually and tries to smirk. “If you don't succeed, I believe a Midgardian saying begins.”

“I know you're masking your hurt,” Phil says and folds his hands on top of his lists of reports. “To be honest, I don't really care about your feelings. Neither does anyone else here, apart from Thor. But Thor cares.”

Loki doesn't quite scowl, but it's close.

“You aren't wearing your uniform,” Phil continues, quieter now. “SHIELD would have removed it the minute they had you in custody. I know that you're showing me an illusion – just another layer to your mask. I remember that you laughed at me and said your heart 'wasn't pure', when you were under the spell – that you found killing people exhilarating, and that you wanted to take over the world.” He rises to his feet and walks right up to the glass that separates them, a shimmery glimmer betraying the magic helping to keep Loki here.

Loki watches him, eyes deep and dark, face so blank Phil is almost impressed.

“Maybe you're just as evil and maniacal as you want everyone to believe,” Phil says, searching the demi-god's face for any twitch of emotion. “Or maybe you're a little, lost Asgardian boy with father issues who misses his brother. Either way, I'm not too fussed, because you killed a lot of people the last time you visited Earth and I'm not about to forgive that.”

A pale version of a smirk appears on Loki's face. “Such angry words, Philip.”

“But Thor is still searching,” Phil continues, “for a sign – any sign – that a part of the brother he loves is still around. And personally? I think he is. I just think he's too much of a coward to let down any walls and let Thor in. So he throws random spells and badly thought-through plans at his brother's team instead, trying to get his attention, like a kid with a crush.”

Fury crackles in Loki's eyes. “I am no _child_.”

“Then prove it. I've given Thor access to this room. If you ask for him, he'll come.”

“And what, oh saviour of SHIELD,” Loki sneers, “would I tell him?”

Phil steps back. “What you told me, when you were under the spell. He'll understand.”

Loki snorts.

Sighing, Phil turns to walk out. He's done his share of good deeds for today; by now, he just want to go home to the Tower and curl up in bed with Clint, hopefully getting some nightmare-free sleep. His hip twinges sharply, without the crutch, and Phil lets himself put some extra weight on his good leg; hobbles a little. Loki probably won't care, but Phil has a vague hope that if he deliberately shows weakness, Loki might take it as a sign of –

Phil doesn't know.

He does turn, though, before he leaves. Loki watches him with a barely-there frown. His eyes stray to Phil's bad hip. His face is inscrutable, as always, but not as smooth-blank as it has been for most of their meeting.

“He trusted no one,” Phil hears himself say. “Not Mjølnir, not you, not his team. He was a Prince of Asgard, and we were all beneath him.”

Loki narrows his eyes and Phil keeps his gaze; counts the seconds until he reaches forty-six and something relaxes in Loki's stance.

He... flickers, like a water reflection you throw a pebble at. Between the ripples, Phil can see him: the real demi-god, curled up in a corner of his cell, not standing at all. His uniform is gone, instead he's wearing a white strait jacket that only accents how pale he is. His eyes are bloodshot and the bags under his eyes are dark. His hair is unkempt, in tangles, and he leans his head back against the wall. He still watches Phil, but there's something tired about his gaze.

It only lasts a second or two – then the fake Loki is back and smirks at him, a bitter twist to his mouth. “Have a pleasant day, Agent,” he says, and Phil takes the dismissal for what it is.

~*~

“Agent Coulson?”

Phil startles awake, but doesn't move. Even before he's fully conscious, he knows he recognizes that voice, and it's a voice that is safe. “Muh,” he says, because safe voices don't need him to be immediately eloquent.

“It is nine o'clock, Agent,” JARVIS says politely. “You requested I awake you one hour prior to your appointment with Dr. Stanton.”

“Right,” Phil mumbles, blinking and squinting around. “Thank you, JARVIS.”

“My pleasure, Agent.”

“Nnnnnn,” Clint protests from somewhere near Phil's shoulder, and Phil smiles. He turns around, right into the arms of a mostly-asleep archer.

"Good morning, Clint."

“Nnf,” Clint grumbles and latches onto Phil like a cuddly octopus. He's usually too reserved for outright snuggling, like he still thinks Phil finds it anything but adorable. But in the mornings where Clint doesn't have to be up early, where he's still on stand-down after an Avengers mission and it's socially acceptable for him to sleep until noon, _then_ Clint will be a cuddle monster. It's just another reason why Phil loves these mornings.

“I have to be up in ten minutes,” Phil murmurs and drops a kiss to Clint's collarbone. Their legs are tangled fully, now that Phil's hip is getting better, and Clint doesn't bother to chase wakefulness. Instead he squirms closer, arms around Phil's naked body, keeping Phil locked in place like that will keep him from getting to his appointment. It very nearly does; like this, watching Clint sleep, the way his eyelashes rest against his cheeks and twitch when he begins to dream, Phil can't fathom anything he would rather do than stare his boyfriend.

He ignores the little surge of excitement that still goes through him every time he consciously thinks _boyfriend_ ; he's far too old to have a teenage crush.

It doesn't make him able to do anything but stare at Clint sleeping, though; the way his lips are slightly parted and resting against Phil's chest, near his nipple. The way his fingers twitch before finding his hips, seeking out something safe to hold onto even in sleep. The way he frowns briefly and smacks his lips, before huffing a breath across Phil's chest and falling deeper into slumber.

 _I love you_ , Phil mouths against Clint's temple, because it is far, far too early to say that out loud.

Clint makes a ' _snck_ ' sound in his sleep, and Phil smiles into his cropped, sleep-soft hair.

~*~

Tony calls him when Phil's in therapy. Phil doesn't check his phone, just feels it vibrate against his thigh – but he knows that it has to be Stark. Clint, Natasha and Fury know where he is every Thursday at ten; Maria and Sitwell tend to text him unless there's something important; the rest of the team call him once and then leave him be.

His phone buzzes for the _entire hour_.

“Stark, please give me one good reason not to put you on Avengers publicity duty for the next month,” Phil snaps as soon as he exits Stanton's office. Her secretary smirks at the mention of Tony's name and waves goodbye.

“Oh, I've got a good reason,” Tony chirps into the phone. “I have the _best_ reason.”

Phil stops in the hallway outside the counselling offices, a junior agent fixing him with the special brand of guilty look that means she was among Loki's mind-washed agents. “Stark. What did you do?”

“Come home, Double-Oh-Coulson,” Tony sing-songs. “I've even got your boy wonder in on it. You're gonna _love me_ , oh my God, I am the best friend.”

“Tony-” but the billionaire has already hung up, leaving Phil to stare at his phone while his stomach churns uncomfortably. The junior agent has moved on, shoulders still hunching where she walks down the hallway.

He contemplates calling Clint, either for reassurance or to sell Tony out, but decides against it. Tony's ideas range from magnificent to apocalypse-inducing, but when the genius sounds so thoroughly excited by something he has for Phil, he chooses to believe it's not something that will end the world.

Plus, the knowledge that Clint knows about – and therefore condones – the surprise makes Phil relax. Which was without a doubt Tony's aim with that comment.

He decides to take a cab halfway and walk the rest, both to mentally prepare himself and for the exercise. By the time the Tower is right in front of him, his hip aches, but it's mild and dull, not jarring. Tony's standing outside, gesturing at his tablet as usual, talking – though Phil doesn't hear what he says – to Clint, who's slouching beside him with an amused smile on his face.

Phil relaxes further.

“Hey,” Clint says as soon as he sees him, and bounds over to press a quick kiss to Phil's lips. They aren't very PDA, and they make a point of remaining professional at SHIELD, but here in the Tower, where everyone knows and no one minds, they can afford to do things like this.

“Okay, Stark, I am all yours,” Phil says and turns to Tony, though he keeps close to Clint. Clint, on his side, is practically bouncing with excitement, and Tony is no better.

“He wishes,” Clint says, purposely leaning against Phil for a moment, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Relax, princess Buttercup, I'm not trying to steal your Wesley. Now come on, come on!” And he practically drags Phil off, Clint in tow. Phil is reminded, with startling clarity, how alike the two of them can be.

Tony leads them to his oversized, cramped garage, and places Phil outside the garage door. “Just – stay here, stay,” he says and gestures wildly at him, backing up a few paces. Phil arches an eyebrow at Clint, who also steps back, but Clint says nothing and just winks at him.

Phil reckons it's too late to point out that he really dislikes surprises.

“J, my sweet, sweet angel,” Tony says. “Draw back the curtains.” And he spreads his arms wide, like the ringmaster in a circus.

Phil thinks absently, as the garage door opens, that Tony _is_ actually the ringmaster of this team. Then his thoughts get sidetracked, because _what is that_.

“Philip,” Tony says, “Meet Lola.”

If Phil were the type to say “Oh my God” to things, that's what he would be saying right now. As it is, he says nothing. Just stares. When Tony gestures some more, Phil walks forward until he can touch the car. The bright red, sleek, perfect, '62 _Corvette_ that stares friendly at him, almost sparkling in the cloudy sunlight. She is _beautiful_.

“Is – is she mine?” Phil asks, his voice hushed, and touches the glistening curves of her hood. She's newly waxed and oh, so smooth, probably done so by Tony himself.

“All yours, Agent,” Tony says, walking up to him with his hands in his pockets. He looks almost modest, now that he knows how much Phil likes his present. “It's kind of a 'hey, you're not dead' present times two. Because hey, you're not dead!”

Phil smiles, but can't make himself stop touching her yet. She is just so... perfect. “Lola,” he murmurs. “It's a good name.”

“Only the best for my girl,” Tony says and skims his hand over her side. “You should take her out, show her a good time.”

“Okay, are you guys still talking about the car?” Clint jokes, sidling up to Phil's side again. “Because I gotta tell you, a guy could get jealous for less.”

“You know,” Tony says to Clint, “I could make so many jokes about riding right now, but I'm not going to because it would ruin the moment.”

Phil opens the door on the driver's side and gets in. Her interior is black, smooth leather all the way, and he runs his fingers over all the parts he can; the seat, the gear stick, the inside of the car door, the wheel. It smells like fresh, sun-warmed leather in here, and he quickly finds the button that makes her top go down.

Phil is in love all over again.

“Okay, seriously this time,” Clint says and gets in on the other side, Tony staying outside to grin smugly at them both. “Jealous, here.”

Phil pulls him in by the collar of his shirt and kisses him until they're both breathless, his other hand still on Lola's wheel. Clint makes a quiet, surprised sound and lets him.

“I guess you weren't kidding when you said you like cars,” he says when they pull back for air, eyes mostly closed and a small smile on his face.

Phil leans their foreheads together and grin. “Clint?”

“Mmm?”

“Imagine that your bow was a vehicle.”

A beat. “ _Oh_ ,” Clint breathes.

“Yes,” Phil says decisively and kisses him again.

“I'm gonna let you three lovebirds get acquainted,” Tony says and walks off with a little wriggle-wave of his fingers. “Just remember this the next time I hack into SHIELD's files on the recently re-discovered Winter Soldier, okay?”

Phil makes a choking noise into Clint's mouth, but Tony's gone. Clint laughs against his lips and puts a hand on Phil's neck when he tries to pull away.

“I'm going to kill him,” Phil says.

“Or,” Clint says and noses at his temple, “you could take us for a ride and let Fury deal with that particular mess.”

Phil has to admit, if only to himself, that Clint and Lola make a valid point.

~*~


End file.
